Reboot
by LuckyLadybug
Summary: Threeshot. 1987 series, my Exit the Fly verse. Putting the pieces together after Shredder and Krang's failed lightning gun scheme is not easy for anyone involved.
1. Chapter 1

**Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles 1987**

 **Reboot**

 **By Lucky_Ladybug**

 **Notes: The characters are not mine and the story is! ThickerThanLove helped a great deal with the shaping of this story. This is part of my** _ **Exit the Fly**_ **verse. Baxter is human again and an ally of the Turtles. His brother Barney . . . well . . .**

 _The sirens were wailing._

 _Maybe they were what awakened him._

 _Or maybe it was all the plaster and debris and dust in the air._

 _Or the chill against his cheek._

 _His eyes fluttered open. It was hard to focus. Maybe he was still half out of it. Or maybe . . . maybe . . ._

 _He reached up, feeling against his face. No glasses. Wonderful._

 _How did he know he wore glasses?_

 _He sat up, shaking, the chill wind blowing through his wild hair. He was laying on a slab of cement, just outside what seemed to be left of a door marked Emergency Exit. The door was practically the only thing standing on the block. Something heavy had come down. A building. The skeletal remains of it were still there, standing cold against the night sky._

 _He had just survived something terrible. He knew that, but . . . what?_

 _He pushed himself up, shaking. The dizziness threatened to overwhelm him. He groaned, crashing back to the ground._

 _He had to get up, he had to leave. What was left of that building wasn't secure at all. It was going to come down and crush him if he didn't get away._

 _Again he struggled to stand. This time he succeeded. He limped forward, desperately staggering off the cement and into some kind of an alley. The ghost of the building was groaning behind him._

 _He had only barely made it around the back of a building on the other side of the alley when he heard the rest of the destroyed building come crashing to Earth._

 _He shook again. He would have been killed if he hadn't regained consciousness and managed to limp away. But now . . . now what? What was he going to do? Where would he go?_

 _Who was he?_

 _He remembered things in fragments. . . . He hated his parents. . . . They never loved him. He also hated his brother. But his brother loved him._

 _Obviously he was a mixed-up and wretched individual._

 _Without even realizing it he had resumed walking. He hadn't been sure what he was going to do, but his body seemed to have decided for him. Maybe he would just keep at that for a while. . . ._

xxxx

The ride back from the press conference was spent with Baxter holding Barney's laptop on his lap and not speaking unless spoken to. He was badly shaken; the full force of his brother's death had hit him after delivering his speech pleading for Barney to be remembered as a hero and not a villain.

"Baxter?" Vincent spoke. "Baxter, old pal?"

Baxter looked at the alien computer sorrowfully. "I don't know what we're going to do," he whispered.

"All you can do is to keep living," Splinter said kindly. "It will be difficult, especially at first, but I believe you will find your way. And all of us will be here to offer support."

Baxter tried to smile. "I don't think I could handle this on my own. It's too horrible."

"You are stronger than you believe," Splinter said. "But even so, even the strongest person can crumble when hit by tragedy."

Baxter leaned back, still holding the laptop close. "My mother called up today crying. She seemed to realize at least somewhat how badly she and Father had hurt Barney, since he refused to see her. She said now he was gone and she never would have the chance to try again."

"Is your dad upset at all?" Michelangelo wondered.

"Mother said he locked himself in his study last night and hadn't said a word." Baxter sighed. "He's upset alright, but whether or not he will ever forgive Barney is still a mystery."

"Like, Barney protected so many people," Michelangelo frowned. "How could he not feel better towards him?"

"You don't know my father," Baxter said with a dry smirk.

"And Shredder and Krang must be livid," Raphael remarked. "Although whether Shredder is angrier at Barney or Krang is another mystery."

Baxter fell silent, looking down at Vincent. "You know, it's so ironic," he mused. "Barney always felt so bitter thinking I was the favorite child. And from my point of view, it seemed more like Barney was."

"You mean because of what you said about how they didn't try to help you about the asylum, but when Barney got arrested they really got busy trying to clean up the family name," Michelangelo said.

Baxter nodded. "But the truth was probably just as I said then, that when one son had gone 'bad' in their eyes, they hoped to stay quiet and see if it would blow over. When both sons went 'bad,' they felt there was no choice but to do something. They probably had something to do with Barney's sentence being reduced. I think he was only in prison about a year."

"Did you ever talk to Barney about that?" Leonardo asked.

"No, I didn't," Baxter sighed. "I was thinking now that I should have when Barney snapped at me over email about me being the favorite. But after Barney tried to repair what he'd said, I was just happy to put it behind us and move on instead of continuing the conversation. I'm afraid I didn't even think about saying that."

"Many times, we only think of what might have good to say in hindsight," Splinter said.

"I think it was just as well not to try to say anything more about it right then," Vincent said. "Barney had finally calmed down. It might have set him off again."

"Yes, you're probably right," Baxter agreed.

He grew quiet for a long moment. "Part of me worries and wonders if Barney went anywhere or if he's still here on Earth, trying to communicate." He shuddered. "It was so frightening when that happened to me."

"But you weren't really dead, Baxter," said Vincent.

"It felt like I was," Baxter replied. "For all intents and purposes, I _was_ a ghost, spirit, what have you. Last night I kept jumping at every little noise in my apartment, fearing that Barney was trying to reach out to me and I just couldn't hear him."

"It is natural to wonder and worry about that, especially considering your disturbing experience," Splinter said. "What does your heart tell you?"

"I'm too upset to listen to anything my heart might tell me," Baxter retorted. "And I don't know that I could believe it anyway. I honestly don't know where Barney is. There's no way I can know for certain. I can only hope and pray for the best."

Michelangelo laid a hand on Baxter's shoulder. "I guess it really is a lot less agonizing to be able to think in Japanese culture that everyone goes to the same nice place."

"It is," Baxter said. "But I can't believe that. I wasn't raised like that. And when I experienced what it's like to be stranded as a wandering spirit on Earth . . ." He shuddered.

The Turtles looked at each other helplessly. None of them really knew how to make this situation better. Of course, they realized with sadness, there was likely no way they could really do that. Not unless they could bring Barney back. And that was something they just couldn't do.

Michelangelo was the one who decided to finally try to speak. "Well, after what Barney did and how many people he protected, it seems like any God should take that into consideration. . . ."

"I think so too," Baxter said softly. "But I don't know if that would balance out all the wrong he's done. I don't even know if I'll go to Heaven myself."

"I believe you would, Baxter, old pal," Vincent said.

"Same here," Michelangelo said.

"But there's no way we can know where Barney would go," Leonardo said quietly. "You'll drive yourself crazy if you keep agonizing over it. Like you said, all you can really do is hope and pray for the best."

"Which is what I'll keep doing," Baxter said. "But I will never be able to put it out of my mind altogether. Not unless Barney comes to me and tells me he's . . . he's alright. . . ." His voice caught in his throat.

"That would indeed be a great burden lifted from your shoulders," said Splinter. "I have heard that some people do experience visits from their departed loved ones. But it is quite rare. You should not get your hopes up too high for such a visit, Dr. Stockman."

"I know. I won't." Baxter hugged the laptop close. "I just wish I knew what to do. . . . I feel so lost right now."

"Me too, Pal," Vincent whispered. "I wanted us to all be together. Now we never can be."

That was the final straw. Baxter sobbed, unable to hold it back any longer.

xxxx

 _He was so dizzy, so sick. He could barely see. Couldn't think. He stumbled down the sidewalk, shaking, desperately wanting help but being unable to find any._

 _The only people he passed regarded him with fear or disgust or even loathing. When he paused by a magazine stand, trembling as he tried to steady himself on the corner, someone threw what sounded like an empty soda can at his back. "Get out of here, you miserable drunk!"_

 _He wanted to reply, to say that he wasn't drunk at all, that he was hurt and probably had a concussion. But the words in his mind were not making it to his tongue. He let go of the stand and limped on._

 _Other people cursed and swore at him when he paused, needing to take a break, to get his bearings, to try to find the strength to go on a little longer. Some of their cruelty he was unable to process in his current state, but some he could._

 _"Rotten druggie."_

 _"I've never seen anyone that stoned. And that's saying something."_

 _"We don't want your kind around here. Get out!"_

 _Several more things were thrown at him before he made it out of that district. The worst was the wrench. It glanced off his shoulder and he cried out, gripping the injury._

 _"Oh, so you_ _ **can**_ _talk," sneered the one who had thrown it._

 _He looked over, desperate, pleading. "I . . . I'm not . . . I need help. Please. . . ."_

 _"Then go to the shelter," was the unfeeling reply._

 _Really, he felt like he was going to swoon right into the gutter. But he wasn't going to pass out here. He couldn't. He had to keep moving, somehow, some way. . . ._

 _His body had to be on autopilot. He wasn't able to think clearly enough to force himself to keep going, but he was managing it. When it gave out on him at last, he had wandered into an alley and was clutching the bottom of the fire escape ladder for dear life. His legs failed him and he went down on his knees. The ladder clanged, coming down with him._

 _"What's going on out there?!" came a tense woman's voice._

 _He slumped forward, one arm draped through the rungs of the ladder. "Help. . . ."_

 _He was sure that she was going to slam the window shut and order him to move on before she called the police. Instead, she gasped and came out on her balcony. "Jim, help!" she called through the window. "There's a man out here and he's hurt!"_

 _He was only semi-conscious by this point and very nearly at the point of black-out. But then he heard footsteps running out to him and felt arms lifting him on either side._

 _"Who are you?" the man asked in concern. "What happened?"_

 _"Building . . ." That was all he had the strength left to say._

 _"Let's get him in the house," the woman exclaimed. "He's in no condition to be out here!"_

 _Sound was failing him now. But apparently the man agreed, because he felt himself being helped into the warm house before his legs buckled and he was on his knees again._

 _Maybe . . . maybe there actually was still some kindness in this mixed-up world._

xxxx

Baxter plodded into his apartment and sank into the chair by the telephone, the laptop open on his lap. The answering machine was flashing, but he didn't feel like listening to his mother's hysterics again right now. He didn't know how to deal with this himself; how was he ever going to help her? Still, he didn't like to leave her hanging either, and the flashing was making him nervous, so finally he reached over and pressed the button.

 _"Baxter, Dear, we need to start thinking about a memorial service for Barney. I saw your press conference on television and it was very beautiful and moving. I want to follow up on that idea and have Barney remembered as a hero. I can purchase a plot in the cemetery and have a big headstone made up, the kind fitting for a hero. Let's get together for dinner and discuss it."_

Baxter trembled. "A plot in the cemetery?!" he wailed. "There's nothing left to bury, unless we put that piece of hair in an urn!" And he gripped his face with a shaking hand. It was too much to think about.

"Baxter, old pal?"

He took his hand away and looked sadly at Vincent.

"Baxter, before Barney left to take me to your apartment, he was writing another letter to you. He ended up deciding not to keep it and tried to delete it, but I had the feeling you might want it. Maybe I shouldn't have, but I saved it anyway."

Baxter blinked in surprise. "What? What kind of a letter?"

"There's not much of it. Maybe Barney was too proud to finish it or maybe he just felt that it was better to focus on the information he left you in the letter he did finish." Vincent brought up a word processor and opened a document. "It's here."

Baxter stared at the remnants of the prior letter. Barney hadn't written many words, but oh, the power in them!

 _I always thought you were weak and I was strong, but it was the other way around. You took all the cruelty that was heaped on you for years and years. You took it and took it and_ _ **took it,**_ _until you finally just snapped. I couldn't take it from day one. I thought I was tough because I never tolerated anyone hurting me. But in reality, how much tougher were you, to just let it happen over and over and keep pressing on in spite of it? And not just that, but to keep loving in spite of it?! I have never heard tell of such strength!_

 _I also thought you were a fool and I was wise. Look at the mess I'm in now. You made some stupid decisions, but you've bounced back from them. You're actually happy now. And I . . . I never can be._

 _I know neither of us are very religious, but as far as I know, we both believe in God. That scripture from the Bible keeps going through my mind lately. You know, the one that says "Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth"? That sounds like you, Brother. If anyone deserves to inherit the earth, it's you._

Baxter slumped back. "Oh Barney. . . ." Tears pricked his eyes.

"Did I do the wrong thing, Baxter?" Vincent sounded worried.

"No." Baxter shook his head. "You did exactly right." He tried to smile. "Thank you, Vincent. Although I don't know what Barney would think of you holding onto something he wanted to delete."

"Well . . . maybe we can ask him, someday. . . ."

Baxter hugged the laptop close as the tears slipped free. He prayed that he would see Barney again, someday. And if any electronic device truly had a soul and could carry on beyond mortality, it was Vincent. Perhaps, yes, they would both see Barney again. Someday.

xxxx

 _His mind seemed clearer when he found himself waking up on a soft couch. For a moment he lay there, blinking up at the ceiling in bewilderment._

 _Where was he? He vaguely remembered something about a nice young couple trying to take him in. Was this their home?_

 _Who was he? Blast, he still couldn't remember. His brother and someone named Vincent would be worried about him. But he had no way of contacting them without a full name for one of them or him. And he hated his brother anyway. He must be some kind of monster. Only a monster would hate someone who loved them._

 _He was wearing a lab coat. . . . Was he a doctor? . . . No, a scientist. Although, a scientist of_ _ **what**_ _, he had no idea._

 _Subconsciously he reached into his coat pocket, pulling out what looked like a glasses case. He stared at it before slowly opening it. There was a spare pair in there. Relieved, he slipped them on and sat up._

 _"Are you feeling any better?"_

 _He looked up at the woman's voice. She was coming in with a tray of what looked like hot broth. Behind her, the man-Jim, was it?-was standing in the doorway with a bagel._

 _"Yes, thank you."_

 _She handed him the broth. "Can you drink this? It should give you some strength."_

 _His hands seemed much steadier than they had before. Grateful, he sipped at the broth. "You're being so kind," he said when he paused. "No one else would help me. Why did you?"_

 _"You needed it," she said._

 _"There's still good people in this old city," said Jim. "We help where we can."_

 _"But I'm a stranger. You couldn't know if I was really hurt or if I was some idiot drug addict off the street."_

 _"We could see you were hurt," Jim said. "Betty here really thought we should call an ambulance."_

 _He stiffened. The thought of an ambulance filled him with fear. No, not the ambulance, per se, but where it would go. He couldn't go to a hospital. He didn't know why, but the feeling was very strong that he could not. "Did you?" he asked, his tone wary._

 _"We probably should have," Jim said. "But when you collapsed on the couch and seemed to be breathing normally, we wondered if you just needed rest and we shouldn't move you."_

 _"Hmm." It hadn't been wise, he was sure. And he shouldn't have allowed himself to fall asleep, not when he was so sure he had a concussion. But he likely hadn't had much choice in the matter. He had probably swooned rather than deliberately fallen asleep. And he was grateful that he hadn't awakened in a hospital._

 _"It was the wrong decision, wasn't it?" said Betty._

 _"Probably," he answered. "But I'm alright." He finished the broth. "Thank you. I won't impose any longer."_

 _Betty stared at him. "You're not really going to leave!"_

 _"I need to go."_

 _"Do you know where you're going?" Jim asked. "We couldn't find any identification on you."_

 _Well, that was just great. Now he would never know who he was unless his memory started coming back to him more. He could still only remember in fragments._

 _"I need to find answers," he said at last. "I have to leave to find them."_

 _"Well, you're clearly more alert and aware than you were last night," Jim said then._

 _Betty nodded. "We can't keep you here, even if we feel you should really stay."_

 _"There is . . . one thing," he said slowly, drawing his long red hair over his shoulder. "Would it be possible for me to . . . take a shower?"_

 _Jim relaxed. "If you feel up to it, you're welcome to it," he said._

 _"And we'll have your clothes washed too," Betty added._

 _"Thank you," he said in awed amazement._

xxxx

 _The water felt refreshing and good as it pelted over his skin. But he frowned as he slowly examined himself. There were several harsh bruises, especially one on his right leg. That was why he limped, he supposed. Another on his left arm was a particularly cruel red and he imagined it would shift to purple before long. His left shoulder was also discolored, where the wrench had hit it. But better a bruise than a break._

 _He stepped under the showerhead, dampening his hair before going for the shampoo. He rubbed it into his scalp and then gathered the length of his hair to squeeze more shampoo into it._

 _Why had he chosen to grow his hair out? It wasn't so uncommon in this day and age, but it seemed curious for a scientist._

 _He was a rebel. . . . Originally he grew it long out of bitterness and anger and a desire to be different from his brother, but he ended up just plain liking it better that way._

 _But his brother's hair was long too, at least now. Not as long, oddly enough. Shouldn't their hair have grown to the same length? Well, maybe his brother preferred it shorter._

 _Somehow, it didn't seem like that was it. There was another reason, a darker reason. But he couldn't remember it. Giving up, he went for the soap._

 _He wobbled when he tried to bend over and soap his legs. He grabbed the edge of the tub, but his soapy hand didn't offer very good traction. He slipped, sitting down hard in the tub._

 _He hissed in frustration. This probably hadn't been a very wise idea. He was definitely still weak from last night. The bruise on his leg made it hard to balance. And he absolutely_ _ **hated**_ _any show of clumsiness. He was not clumsy; his brother was the clumsy one._

 _"Are you okay in there?" Jim called from outside._

 _"Yes," he called back. How humiliating._

 _He decided to soap his legs while he was sitting down and not risk another spill. Then he rinsed his hands and pulled himself up with a wince._

 _To his relief, there weren't any more ignoble incidents. He managed to finish the shower and climb out of the tub without much more than a slight sway. He dried himself off and reached for the robe that had been left for him while his clothes were being cleaned. It was too big, naturally, even though it was Betty's robe and not Jim's. But at least it didn't trail on the floor, and in any case, he was both moved and bewildered by the kindness._

 _He stayed until his clothes were ready and he managed to get his hair dry. It was winter; he had no desire to go out with wet hair and probably end up with pneumonia on top of everything else currently wrong with him. Betty and Jim were very accommodating and tried to make him feel at home while he was there, providing him with food and pleasant conversation. They talked mostly about themselves when it became obvious he didn't want to talk about himself. Of course, he couldn't even if he wanted to, but he did his best to hide his memory loss and just make himself look like a private and aloof person._

 _And really, he had to admit, he did feel at home. He couldn't remember very often feeling so at ease anywhere. When he tried to remember his home life, there was only a cold darkness and he had to stop before he upset himself too seriously. But this was the complete opposite. He hated to leave, but he knew he had to._

 _And so he departed, on what at that point seemed an impossible journey. In case he needed their help, he had a card with Betty and Jim's address and telephone number tucked in his pocket, as well as cash for a meal and change for a pay phone._

xxxx

The sounds of someone working out in the training room were not unusual at all assorted times of the day or night. But Donatello was surprised when he approached and found Raphael thoroughly beating the stuffing out of one of their punching bags.

"Raphael, what is it?" Donatello asked in concern. "What's wrong?"

"I hate him!" Raphael screamed, accentuating his pronouncement with another punch. "I _hate_ him!"

"Who, Raphael?" Donatello walked farther into the room. He wasn't sure if it was a trick of the light or the truth, but it almost looked like Raphael's eyes were wet.

"Barney," Raphael snapped.

Donatello frowned. "This isn't about what he did to Michelangelo, is it."

"Of course it is!" Another punch. "It's always about that. And now it's about him going off and dying and leaving Baxter and that alien computer to suffer . . ." More punches. "And how he just stood there, smirking up at us, at _me_ , with that look like he was doing something worth being proud of! He looked right at me and said 'Goodbye' and then . . . then the roof closed and he was just _gone._ I'm the last person he ever spoke to. Me, the guy who hates his guts!" Raphael stabbed the punching bag with a sai and sank to his knees, still holding it.

Donatello went over to the red-masked Turtle's side. Now he could see that Raphael definitely was crying. And he was trembling; the hand holding the sai was violently shaking.

"We saw that last look differently," Donatello said. "He hated himself. He was resigned to what he was doing because he felt that was the only way."

"Oh, so now you're standing up for him too," Raphael snapped.

"I'm telling you the facts as I saw them." Donatello leaned down. "And I don't think you hate Barney nearly as much as you hate yourself."

"What?! That's crazy!" Raphael had been trying to avoid eye contact, but this pronouncement shocked him enough that he turned and looked at Donatello, all thoughts of the renegade tears forgotten.

"You hate that you couldn't protect him," Donatello said quietly. "You hate that he looked right at you, resigned to his doom, and you couldn't do anything about it." He gripped his bo. "Well, you know what? I hate myself for it too. I'm the one who had to fly us out of there because there was no way we could save him. I hated to do it. I wanted to stay there so bad. But logically I knew that we'd all die with him. So there was nothing I could do but get us out of there. And it's been haunting me ever since!"

Raphael stared at Donatello in shock. Then he looked away, gripping a handful of mat. "He was so stupid. So _stupid,_ Donatello! He didn't have to die. If he'd just listened to Baxter or that computer months ago, he'd still be alive!"

"Yes, that was stupid, but who hasn't done something stupid and not listened when they really should have?" Donatello knelt next to Raphael now. "I'm upset that he didn't listen too. But I'm also grateful, really, _really_ grateful, that when he realized exactly what was going to happen if Krang unleashed his lightning gun, he decided to take the responsibility for stopping it. He saved a lot of lives. The only one he couldn't save . . . was his own." He looked down. "And he was willing to give it up if that was the price."

"Maybe the tabloids were right," Raphael muttered. "Maybe he was trying to take the easy way out."

"Barney believed that he was going to go to Hell," Donatello said. "Suicide wouldn't be the easy way out for him."

"Yeah." Raphael glowered at the floor. "I guess I'm just trying to make myself feel better in some small, stupid way. Like that if he was really determined to kill himself, it wouldn't matter as much that we couldn't save him."

"It would still matter every bit," Donatello said. "But I don't think that was what he was trying to do."

Raphael smacked the mat with his palm. "You're right, Donatello. I hate myself for not being able to save him. But I still hate him too!"

"Actually, Raphael, you sound a lot like Barney right now," Donatello said. "He was always hating himself the most and hiding his deepest feelings behind his anger. You still hate him, sure, and that's making you really confused right now, because you're also honestly mourning his death. You're sad that he's dead and you really wish he wasn't. And you wonder why you're feeling that way when you hate him so much. That sounds an awful lot like how Barney loved and hated Baxter at the same time and struggled with it. I guess that kind of emotional battle really would make someone angry and confused."

Raphael stared again at that. The last thing he would have ever expected or wanted was to be compared to his hated enemy. But then he looked away. Maybe Donatello was right.

xxxx

Leonardo found Michelangelo standing at the grate and staring out at the New York night. "What is it, Michelangelo?" he asked as he approached.

"I'm just thinking how totally bogus this whole thing is," Michelangelo answered with uncharacteristic bitterness. "The premonitions I get, I mean. Okay, so the thing with Mondo Gecko worked out. But my feeling about Krang's device didn't help us stop it. And the dreams I had warning me about Barney's death. We couldn't stop it! I didn't even know what it meant for sure until it was actually happening!" He hit the front of the Turtle Van.

"Sometimes it works out that way," Leonardo said quietly, even though he knew that wasn't any help at all. "Even Master Splinter says that he isn't always able to properly interpret the dreams he has that actually mean something."

"So what's the point, Leonardo?!" Michelangelo turned to look at him, his eyes tortured. "Why do I get dreams and feelings and stuff if we're not able to do anything about them?!"

Leonardo sighed, gripping the side mirror as he looked down. "I guess . . . there must be a way. If you hadn't had those dreams about Mondo Gecko, you wouldn't have known he was important when you ran into him and you might not have tried so hard to help him get away from Mr. X. And your feeling about Krang's device did help you and Donatello to locate it later. You went back to the spot where you'd had the feeling and there it was."

"But we were trying hard to make sense of this dream, protecting Baxter and all, and it didn't work!" Michelangelo trembled. "Would it have worked if I'd realized it was Barney screaming and not Baxter? How the heck could I have known that?! How could any of us have known that?! What kind of sick force would give me a dream like that when it'd know we'd all interpret it wrong?!"

". . . Maybe it thought we should have known," Leonardo said at last. "We all knew Barney was in danger. But then when you got that warning, we all jumped to the conclusion that it was Baxter even though we knew about Barney."

Michelangelo turned away. "Poor guys. . . . And poor computer. . . ." He clutched the front of the Van with his hand. "Leonardo . . . there isn't any chance Barney's alive out there, is there? Any real chance?"

He sounded so lost that Leonardo's heart went out to him. "I don't know, Michelangelo," he said quietly. "I don't think so."

Michelangelo's shoulders slumped. "I want to keep believing," he said quietly.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Leonardo answered. "You'll only hurt yourself. Maybe Baxter too."

"I wouldn't have to say anything to Baxter," Michelangelo countered. "But deep down, I could keep believing it."

Leonardo sighed. "If that's the way you want it."

"Yeah." Michelangelo resolutely looked out the grate. "I'm gonna keep thinking that someday, Barney's going to come back and everything's going to be okay again."

Leonardo gave his comrade a sad look. Someday that hope was going to come back to bite him. But as long as he was determined to keep it, there was nothing Leonardo could do to convince him otherwise. Michelangelo would just have to learn the hard way that no one came back from death.

xxxx

 _He wandered into an old diner on a forgotten Manhattan street and sank down at the counter. The man behind the counter looked up. "What'll it be?"_

 _He craned his neck back to look at the menu on the wall. "Pancakes." He remembered he liked pancakes. . . ._

 _"For dinner?" The man looked incredulous._

 _He crossed his arms on the edge of the counter. "I didn't see a sign that says you only serve certain foods at certain times of the day. Places like that always irritate me."_

 _"Okay, okay. Pancakes." The man shrugged and set down the cloth he was using on the counter before going into the kitchen._

 _He sighed, leaning forward and propping himself up with a hand to his forehead. It had been such a long day . . . such a very long, cold day filled with aimless wandering and the inability to remember much of anything. And then he came in here, sat down, and recited some apparent facts about himself completely off the cuff, as though he did still remember._

 _Maybe he did. A concussion resulting in memory loss didn't mean everything was gone for good. Maybe it wasn't even the concussion's fault, either. Maybe the emotional trauma was what had really blocked his memories. No one could escape from a mess like he had and not be traumatized to some extent._

 _Maybe he would never remember absolutely everything, though. He was supposed to be a scientist, but he certainly couldn't recall many scientific things about his study or his fields of expertise. Maybe he was doomed to a future of washing cars or perhaps flipping hamburgers and pancakes, like this person._

 _The man came back with a stack of pancakes. "You like butter or syrup?"_

 _"Both." He accepted the plate and the toppings gratefully. Once the pancakes were guzzled in both, he started to eat._

 _"Are you feelin' okay?" the man asked. "You act like you're not doin' too good."_

 _"I'm alright." It seemed like that was his signature response. But it also seemed like that was something his brother often said. In any case, he was still trying to hide his memory loss. He didn't want anyone to know. It would make him look so vulnerable, and the vulnerable always got hurt._

 _"Lot of excitement in town over that building comin' down last night."_

 _That perked him up. "Building?"_

 _"You didn't hear? It was a big skyscraper. Some nut blew it up so that those Shredder and Krang creeps couldn't use some fancy new weapon of theirs to blow up the city."_

 _"It sounds to me like he should be commended, not branded insane," he frowned._

 _The man waved a hand in a dismissive manner. "You didn't hear the real crazy part. He blew himself up with it. His brother said he didn't have any choice; the only way to make sure the weapon thing wouldn't take out anything else was to stay there with it and set the controls to work backwards or something."_

 _He froze. "So . . . he's dead then?"_

 _"Seems to be." The man shook his head. "Boy, what a nut, I'm telling you. Giving up his life for a bunch of strangers."_

 _He stared down into his pancakes. He knew he had stumbled out of a collapsing building, but he didn't know why he had been there. And he knew he had a brother. Was there any chance, any conceivable chance that . . . he was that person?_

 _No, how could he be? He hated his brother. Could anyone who felt that way about their own relation ever be that self-sacrificing?_

 _Maybe he was an innocent bystander, someone unknowingly left in the building by that person. Maybe he had just barely escaped that man's madness._

 _"Do you know this man's name?" he asked._

 _"Nah. Missed that. His brother's a scientist or something."_

 _A scientist. . . . Yes, that sounded right. His brother_ _ **was**_ _a scientist. But so was he. They were . . . always competing. Or maybe that was how he had seen it. He had turned everything into a competition, even their conversations with their parents. He had wanted to be loved, noticed, and he had always felt his brother was the one they noticed more._

 _But his brother had never tried to be. . . . He had wanted to be recognized as a great scientist, but he had never deliberately taken anything away from him._

 _Why was he so repulsive? Only a wretched person would act like he did about his brother. And there was no way he could be the person who had tried to save all those people. That was too impossible._

 _"You look pretty run-down and beat."_

 _He looked up. "I am. I know it's never wise to take in strangers, but if I help you clean up, might I be allowed just to stay here tonight? I could sleep in a booth. I'd leave tomorrow."_

 _The man stared at him. "You really don't have any place to go?"_

 _"Not around here." He had traveled quite far from Betty and Jim's, and anyway, he didn't like to think of going back there and imposing. He wanted to keep moving, keep looking for answers._

 _"You don't look like a bum."_

 _"I'm not," he insisted. "I'm just . . . not in a good financial place right now."_

 _The man was silent for a long time as he leaned on the counter and the towel with one hand. "I never do stuff like taking in strangers. It only gets you hurt here in the Big Apple. But . . ." He hesitated again. "For some reason I feel like you're trustworthy. Weird. Well, what the hay. I'll just empty out the cash register and you can chill here for the night. There's nothing worth stealing besides the money."_

 _"Thank you," he said in amazed relief. He had almost thought he would either have to take a park bench even though it was winter or else spend the night wandering through all the Wal-Marts in Manhattan and hope he wouldn't be caught._

 _"I just hope I don't regret this," the man muttered._

 _"You won't," he said firmly. "I will be one of the most ideal customers you've had."_

 _"You already are, with your appetite," the man remarked. "I also hope you can pay for that."_

 _"I can." He dug in his pocket for the bills he had been given. "I just don't have enough for a hotel room."_

 _"What are you gonna do tomorrow night?" the man frowned._

 _He paused. "I suppose I'll have to hope that I find someone else as open-minded as you."_

xxxx

Baxter struggled to return to work the next day. He took the laptop with him; he certainly had no intention of leaving Vincent home alone all day. But he warned his friend to not reveal his presence whenever anyone else was around. At least not until Baxter smoothed things over. He was sure Burne hadn't forgotten the computer that had tried to take over the building.

The Channel 6 staff was all very kind and sympathetic as he arrived hugging the purple laptop close to his chest. The secretaries and gofers and camera operators all offered their condolences. Burne actually tried to control his temper. And his friends were all worried.

"Dr. Stockman, I'm sorry you had to come in today," April said as he reached the office floor.

"It's alright," Baxter sighed, trying to smile. "I can't lose this job. It was good of Mr. Thompson to give me even one day off."

"And you brought Barney's laptop?" Irma looked to it.

Baxter nodded. "He left it to me."

"All of it?" April slowly asked. She knew.

"Yes." Baxter started to walk past.

Vernon stepped into his path. "Dr. Stockman, I . . . I'm so sorry," he stammered.

Baxter looked up at him. "Thank you," he said softly.

Vernon shifted. "If there's anything I can do . . ."

"Just knowing you care is enough." Baxter trudged down the hall and into his office. After shutting the door, he set the laptop on his desk and opened it.

Vincent blinked and looked around. "You have a nice office."

"It's comfortable." Baxter sank down at his desk. "All of my files are on my desktop computer," he said apologetically.

"That's alright," Vincent said. "I'm just happy for the company."

Baxter switched on the desktop and leaned back to wait for it to boot up. "I know Miss O'Neil knows about you, but I honestly can't remember if Miss Langinstein and Mr. Fenwick do. They may have seen you briefly but not really thought about it. And I know Mr. Thompson doesn't know about you."

"Do you think it will be hard to explain?"

"Well . . ." Baxter gave him a weak smile. "I can't imagine he'll be very receptive at first, considering what we did here in the past. But he's accepted me, so I believe I can get him to accept you."

"I hope so. I want to come to work with you."

"You'll come in any case," Baxter said. "But we may have to stay secretive for a while. I'll try to feel out Mr. Thompson's attitude today without telling him about you."

He had that chance later that day, when he and Burne ended up meeting by the water cooler. "Hey, Doctor," Burne greeted. "How are you making out?"

"It's . . . difficult," Baxter said haltingly. "The pain is very fresh. But it helps to be able to focus on something else, such as work." He paused. "Mr. Thompson, do you remember the computer I had with me when I . . . er, tried to take over the station?"

Burne stiffened. "Do I?! That creepy computer had me regretting all the money I'd spent to install them all over the building! Computers replace people? No, no, no. That's never gonna happen at Channel 6!"

"I'm sure all of the staff is grateful for that," Baxter said. Another hesitation. "Do you . . . ever wonder what happened to that computer?"

"It blew up, didn't it?" Burne retorted. "Good riddance."

"What if it wasn't destroyed in that explosion?" Baxter asked.

Burne stiffened. "You mean maybe it'll come back and try to take over the station again?! Or worse, that it's already trying?!"

"For the sake of conversation, I just wondered what you would do if you encountered it again," Baxter said. "But let's say it wouldn't be trying to take over the station."

Burne crumpled the empty paper cup in his hand. "I wouldn't trust that thing from here to Hoboken!" He peered at Baxter, his eyes flashing with suspicion. "Why are you asking?"

"I said, just for the sake of conversation." Baxter finished his drink as well and started to step away. "You don't believe it could ever be helpful?"

"Not unless it had its own agenda," Burne said. "Sure, maybe it'd help, but only if it thought that'd further its own goals. What the heck am I doing? I'm talking like it's alive." He shuddered. "It sure seemed like it, though. I swore off watching _2001: A Space Odyssey_ after that. Creepy movie anyway. Never got what everyone saw in it."

Baxter contemplated his next answer. He had to be careful, yet he really wanted to try to get it across that Vincent was not dangerous now. "Mr. Thompson, that computer was not destroyed in the explosion. You're right that it's alive; it isn't just a machine. And it-he-has actually helped the staff of Channel 6 on more than one occasion."

Burne closed one eye and looked at him. "Name one, just one."

"The mirror incident, when Miss O'Neil was hurt," Baxter said. "He was also present when Miss Langinstein and Mr. Fenwick were suffering from The Rat King's mind-control. And he was vital in informing me as to what was happening the other night concerning Shredder and Krang's lightning gun."

Burne frowned. "But what's all this got to do with . . ." He blanched. "Oh no." He stared down the hall. "You brought it here, didn't you?! It's your brother's laptop!"

"Yes, it is," Baxter confessed. "I know that was probably the last thing you wanted to hear, but you did come to accept me even though I was also involved in that takeover. If I have gained any trust in your eyes at all, would you be willing to give the computer the benefit of a doubt when I say he isn't a danger to you or to Channel 6?"

Burne gave him a long, hard look. "You're a human. It's a computer. I'm willing to give a human another chance. I don't know about a computer. But . . ." He rubbed the back of his neck and growled in frustration. "Oh, for cryin' out loud. If you feel it's safe, then okay. We'll try it for a while. But the first time it acts out, it goes."

"He's not even connected to the network," Baxter insisted. "I'll still be using the desktop computer for work. I brought him so he wouldn't have to be alone at my apartment all day." He shifted. "I know it probably sounds incredibly impossible to you, Sir, but he is heartbroken about Barney too."

"You know what? I don't even know what I think is impossible anymore." Burne threw his hands in the air as he turned to stomp back to his office.

Baxter managed a weak smile. "Thank you, Sir."

"Eh." Burne waved a hand at him without turning around.

Baxter hurried back to his office. "It's safe," he told Vincent. "Mr. Thompson isn't thrilled about it, but he'll let you stay."

"I'm glad," said Vincent. "Thank you, old pal."

"I'm glad too," Baxter said as he sat down. "I like having you with me again . . . although it goes without saying that I don't at all like the reason."

"I wanted us to all be together," Vincent said softly. "But Barney said you and he would never be able to live in the same residence."

Baxter half-smiled. "I don't think we could have. We're . . . we were . . ." His voice caught in his throat at having to use the past tense. "We were just barely starting to be able to function like brothers when he . . ."

"I know," Vincent said, and even though a computer physically couldn't cry, he sounded as close to it as he could get.

Then again, Baxter thought, a computer wasn't supposed to physically be able to feel, either, and there was no denying that Vincent did plenty of that. Baxter had always detested the thought of artificial intelligence, but there was no way he believed that Vincent was just a collection of commands programmed into him. He couldn't be, not with the way he grew and developed and reacted to situations. As far as Baxter was concerned, Vincent was indeed completely alive.

xxxx

 _He limped slowly down the residential street. It was somewhat warmer today than yesterday, but he was still chilled with nothing other than his thin lab coat and his long hair to protect him against the elements. He gave an involuntary shiver as he walked past a house where an older woman was outside collecting her mail._

 _"Mornin'," she said in a gruff voice._

 _He blinked and looked over. "Are you talking to me?"_

 _"Ain't no one else to talk to." She closed the mailbox and leaned on it, her other hand on her hip. "You're crazy walking around like that. Aren't you cold?"_

 _He found himself very uncomfortable by the woman's bold and brash nature. "I can manage," he said haltingly._

 _"Manage to catch cold, that's what you're going to be managing." She shook her head and turned to head up her walk. "Come along."_

 _"Come along? What?" He paused at the gate. This was all very awkward and strange._

 _"Come here, of course." She got on her porch and looked back. "All banged up and limping like you are, and without a proper coat! You don't have anywhere to go, do you?"_

 _"I . . . I'm not homeless." He gripped the top of the gate. Really, he didn't know that. But from the manner of his apparel, he could certainly come to that conclusion. Anyway, his brother wouldn't let him be homeless, he was sure. And he doubted his pride would, either._

 _"What are you then? Just plain stupid?"_

 _That made him bristle. "I just don't have access to my other belongings right now!" he snapped._

 _"Oh, you're a fiesty one," she said. "So why not?"_

 _"Are you always this rude?" he frowned._

 _"Are you always so full of pride?" she shot right back. "Anyone can see you're hurt and you're cold, but oh no, you can't confess to anything like that. That would make you less than perfect."_

 _"It would make me unsafe," he retorted._

 _"So you're steeling yourself against the whole world," she said. "My husband was like that."_

 _"And did it help him?" he asked._

 _"Oh sure. He kept everybody out and that was what he'd wanted. Problem was, he also couldn't let anybody in. Even me." She pulled her sweater closer around herself. "Right up to his deathbed, he stayed aloof like that. Then he just broke down crying, saying he didn't want to die. Started letting out all the pain he'd bottled up for decades."_

 _Memories flashed through his mind. He froze, his eyes widening as they rushed over him._

 _He didn't want to die. . . . He felt there was no other way. . . . Vincent pleaded with him not to do it, that they'd find another way. . . ._

 _Vincent . . . his only friend . . . his confidant. . . ._

 _Letting out all the pain . . . all the guilt. . . . Pounding on someone, screaming at him for trying to kill his brother. . . . Screaming at himself for his hatred of his brother. . . ._

 _"Hey!"_

 _He snapped to. He was shaking, one hand over the lower half of his face while the other hand clutched the gate._

 _The woman had come back down the steps, regarding him in concern. "You're going to hurt yourself. If you don't get cut, you'll get splinters all in your hand!"_

 _He gave her a blank look. "Splinters?"_

 _Why did that make him think of rats? . . ._

 _No,_ _ **a**_ _rat. . . . Standing upright and wearing a kimono. . . ._

 _A mutant?_

 _"Oh. Here!" She lifted his hand off the gate and turned it palm-side-up. "Well, you're luckier than the last idiot who did that. No splinters." She sighed and shook her head. "What got you going like that?"_

 _He pulled his hand free. "It was nothing. Your story of your husband just . . . reminded me of something."_

 _She frowned, studying him. But then, determining it was useless, she headed back up the steps. "My husband left a lot of stuff behind. There's an old coat that I think might fit you. It's got a couple of holes, so I never felt right about donating it, but they're nothing big and it'd still keep you plenty warm."_

 _He stared at her. "But I . . . I'm a stranger. And you'd give me something of your husband's?!"_

 _A shrug. "I've got no use for it. You sure do. Just wait there a minute." She vanished into her house, leaving the wooden door open and the screen door closed._

 _He just gawked. He had found her insufferable-and still did, really-but in spite of her apparent dislike of him, she was going to show him a kindness like this?_

 _He slumped back, shaking his head. This was all too strange. It was a dog-eat-dog world. One had to steel oneself to stay alive and safe. He had always believed that. He had lived it. And he had usually been proven right. He had only rarely run across kind people in his life, his brother being one of them. He had always found them foolish and weak._

 _And yet . . . there were some lines he wouldn't cross. There were times when even he had been kind._

 _And what had he to show for it? His memory was gone. He couldn't remember his name. He couldn't go home._

 _Maybe he should go to the police. They might be able to help him figure out who he was._

 _No, he couldn't do that. He didn't want to associate with the police. He was afraid of . . . being arrested again?_

 _He was a criminal then. Well, that shouldn't be much of a surprise, given his bitter and hateful attitude. Apparently he hated the law as well as his brother._

 _The door opened and the woman came out with a long and tan suede coat. "Here." She opened the gate and put it around his shoulders. "Hmm, you're actually a little smaller than my husband."_

 _"It's . . . it's fine, thank you." He pulled the edges of the coat close around him. Only now did he realize how cold he had really been. Somehow he had steeled himself against it so well that he had made himself believe it wasn't there._

 _"You'll make good use of it." She stepped back. "Just don't wander around like this too long. You hear? Go home."_

 _He fumbled with the buttons. "I wish I could," he whispered._

 _She paused, looking concerned again. "Nothing is ever so bad that you can't go home," she said. "That was something else I tried telling my husband. At least I had a little more success with that lesson."_

 _He gave her a dark smirk. "I'll remember that." He started past her down the street. "Thank you again."_

 _"Isn't there anyone you could call?" she demanded._

 _"I honestly can't think of anyone I could call," he answered. He probably_ _ **would**_ _call his brother, if he could only remember his name. His brother must be worried about him. But since he didn't remember, it was all irrelevant. He couldn't call anyone._

 _His brother was probably better off without him anyway._

xxxx

It was strange and sad when the Turtles and Splinter invited Baxter over for dinner the next time. He was grateful for the invitation and accepted, but asked if he could bring Vincent with him. Although hesitant, they agreed. Baxter would never want to leave Vincent home alone, they knew. They would have to get used to having him around.

Baxter was sobered and sad when he arrived, but he tried to smile. "Thank you for inviting me," he said. "It's been so quiet lately."

"Yeah," Michelangelo agreed. "Shred-Head's been real quiet and all."

"Probably nursing his wounds and his pride from Barney's betrayal," Raphael smirked.

"His wounds anyway," Baxter chuckled. "He would insist it was Krang's fault about Barney." He lifted the lid on the laptop. "Here's Vincent."

The Turtles and Splinter exchanged a look. Vincent had certainly not been their ally in the past. But he had helped them on several more recent occasions and now that he was with Baxter again, he was going to be part of the family. That was simply a fact.

From Baxter's eyes, he realized they were leery. But he silently pleaded for them to give the alien computer a chance. Vincent was leery too, yet he had agreed to come.

Michelangelo, of course, was the first to try to make friends. "Hey, Vincent," he waved.

"Hello, Vincent," Leonardo nodded.

"It is good to have you with us," Splinter said, "although we all regret the circumstances."

"So do Baxter and I," Vincent replied. He shot a wary look at Donatello, who had tortured him for information once and had threatened it on another occasion.

Donatello looked equally wary. But when he spoke he tried to make it civil. "Um, dinner's just about ready, I think," he said. "Do you want to stay in the kitchen with us while we eat?"

"Yes," said Vincent. "I would like to join in your conversations, if I may."

"Sure thing," Michelangelo said.

Baxter looked to Raphael, who had remained silent. Finally the red-masked Turtle said, "Well, let's get going then!" and headed for the kitchen.

Michelangelo heaved a sigh as he chased after Raphael. "Come on, Dude," he hissed. "Can't you at least try?"

"I don't know how to talk to a computer!" Raphael retorted. "Especially the computer that helped Baxter with several of his nutso revenge plots." His eyes flashed. "Like the one when they first met."

Michelangelo wasn't surprised. "That's all over now," he said. "I've forgiven them both."

"You would," Raphael grunted. "Of course, I've forgiven Baxter. But a computer?"

"Baxter says Vincent's changed a lot," Michelangelo said. "And he's helped us and all. Can't we just make up and be buds?"

"I know it's hard, but you need to try, Raphael," Leonardo said, coming up on Raphael's other side. "Vincent's here to stay. And this means a lot to Baxter. I don't want Barney's death or Vincent's arrival to cause us to drift apart from Baxter."

"Well, me either," Raphael shot back. "Okay, I'll try. But I'm not the only one who isn't sure what to make of this."

"I think Vincent and I are going to have a rough patch for a while," Donatello admitted as he and Splinter arrived at the kitchen. "Maybe I'll need to talk to him in private."

"Fine!" Raphael snapped. "Just as long as I don't have to join in."

"In a _private_ conversation?" Donatello raised an eyebrow.

"You are all trying, my students, and I am proud of you," Splinter said. "It will be difficult to adjust. But I believe we can do it. We _will_ do it, because we must. We cannot lose Dr. Stockman as a friend, especially now when he needs us so badly."

Baxter came up behind them in the doorway. "I know this is hard for all of us," he said softly. "You were able to work out your differences with me, but you and Vincent have never had that chance. We know there's still bad blood. We were discussing that before we left."

"Maybe we can never be friends," Vincent said. "I know you don't like me and I've had some issues with all of you. But if nothing else, the one thing we have in common is that we all love Baxter now. We can try to get along for his sake, can't we?"

"Righteous notion! Of course we can!" Michelangelo declared, shooting a pointed and pleading look at Raphael and Donatello.

". . . Of course we can," Raphael said at last.

Michelangelo grabbed dinner from the counter and brought it to the table. "We're gonna have a blast!"

"Or at least, the beginning of a proper acquaintance," said Vincent.

"Yeah," said Raphael. "Something like that."

xxxx

 _He had been wandering the neighborhood for some time. It was late, the temperature was dropping, and he really wasn't sure what he was going to do. He pulled his coat closer around him as he shivered from the chill._

 _Another flash of memory: standing on a bizarre machine, leaping off. . . . An explosion that sent him down the side of a mountain, clutching a purple laptop for dear life._

 _Just how accident-prone was he, anyway?_

 _"Hey! Hey, you."_

 _He looked up with a start. A young woman with short brown hair and a red beret was standing on an apartment balcony above him. A red-and-white striped shirt, blue overalls, and a grin completed her ensemble._

 _"Hello," he said slowly._

 _"You've been wandering around here for a while. Are you looking for someplace in particular?"_

 _"No . . . not anywhere in particular." He started to turn away._

 _"You just need a place to crash or something, huh?" She leaned forward on the balcony. "My bud next-door would be happy to take you in for the night."_

 _He raised an eyebrow. "He would?"_

 _"Sure. Especially since he won't be home for another day or two." She gave him a mischievous smile._

 _Now he was uncomfortable. "I doubt most people enjoy coming home and finding that a stranger has been sleeping in their house."_

 _"Aww, he's visiting his folks. And we're both struggling artists. There's nothing worth stealing in his place since he's not well-known yet. We take in people who need it when we find them. You wouldn't be the first guy I've set up in his pad."_

 _It sounded bizarre to him, but then again, struggling artists were a bizarre bunch. He needed to find a place to sleep and he doubted another offer would come along. It would be foolish to pass it up._

 _"If you're sure." He came over to the fire escape and started up the stairs._

 _She leaned on the balcony with one arm and watched him. "Sure."_

 _"You could end up taking in dangerous people," he remarked._

 _"Just in case that happens, we don't stay in the same apartment we're offering," she smirked._

 _"Well, that . . . works, I suppose." He arrived on her balcony and she slid open the door to let him in. "Of course, in a situation like this, I could suddenly change directions and attack you while we're in your apartment."_

 _"Yeah, but you won't." She followed him in and pulled the door shut after her. "You're not that type."_

 _"I don't know how you can tell." He let her get ahead of him and then followed her through the living room._

 _She turned and faced him when they were standing in front of a coffee table with an open photo album on it. "You're the scientific, no time for love or lust type," she grinned._

 _He blinked in surprise. Yes . . . that sounded right. More flashes of memory went through his mind. His parents wanting . . . pleading . . . even demanding for him to get married. . . . His total refusal to do it just because they wanted it. . . . His complete lack of interest in the whole subject of romance. . . . He didn't want it interfering with his work. . . . In college, he had been compared to the inventor Tesla. He had liked that fine._

 _Once he had grown angry and frustrated and decided to try romance simply because his brother was shy and awkward and had no real interest either. Apparently he had . . . wanted to prove that he was bold enough? Another way to separate him from his brother, he supposed. But in the end he had decided against it. He just wasn't interested or attracted. And he . . . hadn't wanted to hurt the girl by dragging her into something he really didn't want. . . ._

 _He was . . . probably still a virgin. He couldn't quite remember yet. His brother was . . . and had been made fun of in high school and college for it. . . . It had angered him that his brother was treated poorly for not engaging in something that he felt was overrated anyway. But he couldn't recall ever actually defending his brother over it. Maybe that was why he remembered his brother's situation more clearly; more guilt and self-hatred on his part. He had never let anyone make fun of him or put him down for any reason, yet he had not lifted a finger to help his brother. What a cruel and heartless person he was._

 _"Hey!" The girl snapped her fingers and whistled. "You still in there?"_

 _He shook himself out of his thoughts. "I'm sorry. You're right; you're not in any danger from me."_

 _The photo album caught his eye and he glanced down at it. Old pictures . . . black-and-white shots of families gathered together and posing for the camera, children playing with dogs or water hoses or climbing trees. . . . Happiness that he had never known in his childhood. . . ._

 _She followed his gaze. "My mom's memories," she explained. "Looks like she had a nice childhood, doesn't it?"_

 _"Yes, it does," he said quietly._

 _"I kind of want to get into scrapbooking. I've got a bunch of pictures around loose in boxes and a blank book that would make a great beginner's scrapbook. So I was looking through some old photo albums for inspiration." She started moving towards the door again. "Memories are pretty important, you know."_

 _"They are," he agreed. "Without them . . . we don't know who we are."_

 _She looked back when she reached the door, her hair flipping with the motion. "That's pretty deep," she said. "I'd expect a scientist to come up with something like that."_

 _"That's common sense," he said. "It doesn't take a scientist to figure it out."_

 _She opened the door and walked to the next apartment over. After taking down the key from the top of the door, she unlocked and opened it. "Voila, your palace awaits."_

 _He stepped inside. "Thank you."_

 _"Feel free to get yourself something to eat if you're hungry," she said. "Or just crash and sleep, whatever floats your boat." She headed back into the hall. "Or if you even want to talk or something, I'll be up for a while."_

 _"I'm very tired," he hedged. "And hungry. But thank you for your offer. We'll see."_

 _"That's usually a polite way of saying No," she winked. "But that's cool. See you in the morning!" And she headed out, pulling the door shut behind her._

 _He stood for a moment, just staring at the door. Then he turned, taking in the apartment that she had opened to him. It was nice. . . . Covered in paintings and sketches, but otherwise fairly neat._

 _This still seemed such a bizarre situation. Slowly he slipped out of his winter coat, draping it on the couch. He half-expected a disgruntled artist to emerge from the bedroom and demand to know what was going on, but nothing happened. He was definitely alone._

 _"Strange," he mused aloud as he pondered on his experiences from the last several days. "Apparently New York really isn't just filled with heartless people."_

xxxx

Baxter and Vincent had broken the ice. There was still some awkwardness, especially from Raphael and Donatello, but with the acknowledgement of the problem out in the open it was far easier for all of them to agree to a truce. Dinner had been pleasant and now they were all gathered in the living room, just talking peacefully.

"Barney talked about all of you once," Vincent said.

"Only once?" Raphael half-joked.

"He talked about some of you more than others," Vincent said. "But the time I'm thinking of was after the incident with the alien cabbages. He came back talking about how all of you have such a unique camaraderie. He said Baxter asked him if he didn't wish they had a similar relationship."

Baxter bowed his head. He remembered that time all too well. And Barney's response.

"Barney had answered that he found happy families naive. When he came back, he expressed guilt for having said that. It was the truth, but he wished he had been kinder when he saw the hurt in Baxter's eyes. He said what might have been a more accurate statement was that he wondered how families could love each other with all the clashing of personalities and feelings of jealousy. And then he talked of how incredible all of you were, to form a family unit despite not being related and to love it so much."

"Alright!" Michelangelo chirped. "Yeah, that's us!"

"More recently, he mentioned that again . . . and he said that while he doubted he and Baxter would ever have that kind of relationship, his hatred had begun to melt at long last and he was seeing Baxter as he always should have-as a kind and loving brother and someone he should have loved all along."

Baxter smiled a bit. "I remember once, when we were very young, I was scared about something and was hiding at the bottom of a large cupboard. Barney found me and just sat there with me for a while. We didn't really talk even then, but having him there was an immense comfort."

"Yeah, Dude," Michelangelo said. "You don't have to talk to be close, although talking is like, really good."

"Barney was really trying to protect me all along these last several months," Baxter said softly. "Even when he still struggled with hating me."

"Barney was a very conflicted individual," said Splinter. "But you are right. When he struck you, I believe that was what fully awakened him to a knowledge of how far he had fallen and how he must stop before any worse damage was done. His hatred couldn't simply vanish, but it was then that he faced it and began to grapple with it."

"He was worried about me when the electrical appliances came to life," Baxter remembered. "And then he let me go so Shredder wouldn't find me. That was before Shredder knew I was alive."

"And then he was always trying to keep up that ruse of wanting you dead," Raphael said. "Like that crazy sword-cane fight in the Floxy Theatre."

"He was so worried about what would happen if Shredder and Krang realized he wasn't as treacherous as they thought," Baxter said.

Leonardo looked to Raphael with a bit of a smile. "Raphael, you believe now that the sword-cane fight was a ruse?"

Raphael looked caught. "Well . . . Baxter thinks it was, anyway," he shrugged. "He'd know better than me what was up."

"I think the turning point for Barney was after all of you tried to help him on the mountain," Vincent said. "It was after that when I really started to notice that his hatred was fading."

Baxter nodded. "He started communicating with me through email." He smiled. "That was nice. I still have everything he sent."

"He started really rebelling against Tin Grin before that, though," Michelangelo said. "I still get a kick out of how he helped out when Tribble dropped in."

"He was clever," Donatello spoke up.

"And oh, such a smooth operator," said Raphael. "Always conning Shred-Head and Krang into believing him. . . ."

"He had a lot of moxey, that's for sure," said Leonardo.

"But he still had those pesky issues about sticking with Shredder and Krang," Raphael remarked. "He helped with the first Relaxatron scheme."

"And he spared me," Baxter said. "I wonder if Bebop and Rocksteady will ever remember that I was apparently not under the influence of the Relaxatron, since I invented something to counter it." He sighed. "I used to worry that they would blurt out something to Shredder and Krang and then they would realize that Barney had spared me."

"Whereas if they realized now, it wouldn't matter," Raphael said.

"Actually, it kind of gives me warm fuzzies to think of them starting to figure out how many times Barney put one over on them," Michelangelo laughed. "I can just hear ol' Metal Mouth screaming."

"That _is_ a classic image, I must admit," said Raphael.

"Good ol' Barney." Michelangelo sounded bittersweet now. "I guess you were right, Master Splinter. What was it you called him? A diamond in the rough?"

Splinter nodded. "Yes. I believe that describes Barney quite well."

"It does," Baxter said softly. "My brother who always insisted he looked out for himself . . . and then sacrificed himself for the city of New York."

There were still plenty of conflicted feelings among the group. Raphael still detested Barney and neither he nor Donatello knew what to make of Vincent. But for tonight they had put all of that aside and come together as friends and comrades to mourn their loss. The pain was still very fresh and raw, but this was a step on the healing process.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes: I had intended for this to be a twoshot, but it got too long. A threeshot should wrap it up nicely, though.**

The next several days passed in much the same manner. Baxter went to work, Burne screamed for a story, and the news crew scrambled to come up with something good. Vincent assisted wherever possible and Burne was slowly coming to accept his presence.

Shredder and Krang had not surfaced since the lightning gun disaster. And without their inside contact, no one knew what their enemies might be planning. They hoped that the next plot would lean towards the ludicrous again, instead of another deadly one. Usually after the defeat of the far more dangerous schemes, Krang would retaliate with something bizarre.

Some nights Baxter and Vincent stayed in and commiserated and mourned, but other times, they went to the Turtles' Lair. The truce continued, albeit it felt somewhat strained at times. But Raphael was determined to make it work for Baxter's sake. Vincent seemed nice enough and Raphael wanted to believe that the alien computer wouldn't suddenly decide to take over the city. He was grieving too, after all-something that definitely gave Raphael pause and made him uncomfortable. He had never met a machine that acted so human.

Michelangelo continued to hope, although by now even he was wavering. A week had passed and Barney had not returned. But nor had the search-and-rescue crews found anything in the wreckage of the Dansing Building. Michelangelo clung to that even though he knew the most logical explanation was that there was nothing left to find.

Leonardo had resumed his ninja practice while Donatello had returned to his inventions. Baxter hadn't felt like examining the power source taken from the Floxy Theatre, so Donatello didn't either. That had been their shared project and he would keep it safe until Baxter had the strength and desire to work on it once more.

Splinter observed all of his loved ones with a sad sigh. They were all dealing with their loss in different ways. Although Barney hadn't been the Turtles' friend, he had become an ally, and in any case, him being Baxter's brother certainly caused his death to have a deep impact on everyone who loved Baxter. Splinter hoped that as time went on, they would all be able to recover from this tragedy and move on. But he also knew that even as wounds healed, they often left scars. The wound from a death always did. Even if things basically returned to normal, no one would ever be exactly the same.

xxxx

Baxter shuffled into the living room, blinking sleep out of his eyes. "Good morning," he mumbled to Vincent, who was already awake.

"Good morning, old pal," Vincent greeted. He hesitated. "Your mother called a few minutes ago."

"Oh no." Baxter stumbled over to the telephone and pressed the button for the answering machine.

 _"Baxter, Dear, I know you've felt that the grief was just too fresh for you to really think about my idea. But we should really do it while the memory of Barney's sacrifice is still fresh on everyone's minds. I've gone ahead and arranged for a memorial service to be held this afternoon. I know you have work, but please try to be there."_

The message ended with the specifics about the cemetery location. Baxter groaned, rubbing his forehead.

"She does have a point, Baxter," Vincent said. "If we wait too long, people will move on and start to forget."

"I know that." Baxter turned back. "I guess . . . for me, the memorial service is the last blow, the final . . . well, nail in the coffin. When we say Goodbye to Barney with a funeral, he . . . he'll really be gone. Deep down, part of me has longed to believe as Michelangelo does, that without a body there's still hope. Even though I know that's foolish and illogical."

"What are you going to do?" Vincent asked.

"Of course I'll go," Baxter said. " _We'll_ go." He gave Vincent a weak smile. "But maybe you'd better masquerade as a regular laptop while we're there. I know my mother won't be able to accept the idea of a living computer. I don't feel like arguing about it with her right now."

"Alright, Baxter, old pal," Vincent agreed. "I won't come out. It will be enough just to hear what's going on."

Baxter gave him a smile and reached for his Turtle-Comm. "I'd better let the Turtles know. They and Splinter will want to come. At least, I think they will. I know Michelangelo will. . . ."

It was Michelangelo who answered, but he seemed downcast. "Hey, Baxter," he greeted. "Uh, I guess you're calling about Barney's funeral?"

"Yes, I am," Baxter blinked. "But how did you know?"

"It's all over the news, Dude," Michelangelo said. "Your mom has really gone all-out about it."

Baxter's eyes darkened. "Of course. She's turning it into a publicity stunt. I should have known."

"I think she just wants everybody to honor your brother and see him as a hero, same as you did," Michelangelo said. "But yeah, it's looking like it's gonna be a pretty big deal. We'll definitely be there, though. Splinter said that maybe we should come in disguise so as not to take the focus off of Barney."

"That's very thoughtful of him," Baxter said. "Alright. Thank you, Michelangelo. I'll see all of you there."

He hung up with a sigh. "Now to ask Mr. Thompson for the afternoon off when I get to work."

"Knowing Mr. Thompson, he'll want April O'Neil to cover the funeral," Vincent said.

". . . You're right," Baxter realized. He sighed. "Oh well. . . . Maybe this really will help to get Barney recognized as a hero even more."

"He already is," Vincent said. "People have been leaving flowers at the site of the Dansing Building."

"I know." Baxter had dared to drive past the wrecked building several times in the past week, hoping against hope to see Barney having returned and stumbling out from the shadows, alive and well. Instead, he had seen the citizens' acknowledgements of Barney's sacrifice for their safety. It had deeply moved him, even though at the same time it had twisted his heart.

He turned to go back into the bedroom. "I'd better take a suit to work and change there when it's time," he determined.

"Do you own a suit?" Vincent sounded surprised.

"I bought one shortly after I joined Channel 6," Baxter said. "I felt so underdressed the first time I met Derrick Matthews at a fancy restaurant. I don't use it much, but it's . . . nice to have it on hand." He swallowed hard. "I just wish this wasn't one of the occasions to have it on hand for."

"So do I," said Vincent.

xxxx

Baxter was right that the funeral resulted in a large turnout. Much of the crowd, he noted in dismay, consisted of the media. But there were also scientists, some he recognized and some he didn't. Even Professor Willardson had come. Baxter wondered if his feelings on Barney had changed any.

He also saw much of his parents' social crowd. They milled around, offering condolences to his mother and some to him. Whether or not they were sincere was something Baxter didn't know. But his mother certainly seemed to eat up and hang on their words.

His father was noticeably absent. He looked around, wondering if there was any chance the man had come and was staying in the limousine.

"What's wrong, Baxter?" Vincent asked. He kept his voice low; neither he nor Baxter wanted anyone but Baxter to hear him.

Baxter shifted the closed laptop under his arm. "My father isn't here," he answered. "I know he acted like he would never forgive either of us and that he had disowned Barney in particular, but it will look bad if he doesn't even come to his own son's funeral. I can't imagine he'd stay away for that reason alone." His shoulders slumped. "What a terrible reason to come."

"But a reason that fits him."

Baxter turned at Raphael's voice. The Turtles and Splinter were approaching. All were wearing grayish-purple suits with fedoras pulled low over their eyes.

"Hey, Baxter Dude," Michelangelo said sheepishly. "Hope we don't look too much like gangsters or something. These were left over from our Cufflink Caper adventure. It was all we had in the way of funeral-appropriate threads."

Baxter managed a smile. "You're fine. I'm just happy you're here. Later you'll have to tell me about this . . . Cufflink Caper?" He raised an eyebrow.

"It's a real doozy, that's for sure," Michelangelo said. "So how's your mom?"

"Frankly, I haven't even been able to get through the crowd to speak with her yet," Baxter admitted in exasperation. "I heard her telling a friend of hers that finally some honor had been brought to the Stockman family again. I know you're trying to think the best of her, Michelangelo, and I am too, but it's very difficult for me to feel that she isn't using Barney's death to generate positive publicity for herself and my father's company. And I know Barney wouldn't appreciate that in the least."

"Gee, she really said that?" Michelangelo frowned. "I thought she was all crying and stuff when Barney died."

"She was," Baxter agreed. "I think she did feel some level of sorrow. Maybe she still does. But I'm afraid I also think that after she calmed down, she started thinking how she could use his death to her advantage."

"Man, that is seriously bogus," Michelangelo declared. "Are you gonna confront her and like, tell her off if she admits it?"

"I can't do that," Baxter exclaimed in alarm. "Not here, anyway. I certainly don't want it remembered that Barney's funeral was the sight of a family scandal!"

"Oh yeah, you're right," Michelangelo frowned.

Baxter sighed. "But maybe later, when we're alone . . . if we're ever alone today," he muttered.

Michelangelo shifted. ". . . So like, what are you going to . . . you know, bury?" he asked. All of them had wondered, but of course Michelangelo would be the one who would dare to ask.

"I don't know." Baxter looked weary and sad. "The police ran DNA tests on that piece of hair to prove whether it was Barney's. It was. I think my mother claimed it from them. And that's honestly all we have, unless she just plans to make this a memorial site without actually putting anything in the ground."

"Are you gonna talk?" Michelangelo wondered. "Like, deliver the . . . what do they call it?"

"The eulogy," Donatello supplied.

"Yeah, that," Michelangelo nodded.

Baxter frowned. "My mother didn't ask me to, but when I think of it, I don't want her to do it. How could she? She didn't really know Barney. I know he would rather I did it too. Of course, he would probably rather we weren't having a public funeral in the first place." He hurried ahead. "I'm going to try to talk to her."

Somehow he managed to push through the crowds and over to where Mrs. Stockman was just finishing talking to another of her friends. She looked up when she saw him coming. "Oh, there you are, Dear," she greeted. "I wondered where you were. I guess I just couldn't see you behind everyone else."

"I guess not," Baxter grunted, deciding to ignore that apparent jab at his height. "Mother, you haven't even talked with me about what you're planning to do for this funeral. The only thing we discussed was how you wanted to have a large tombstone."

"Yes, and you said Barney wouldn't even want that," Mrs. Stockman sniffed. "He always wanted recognition."

"For his scientific achievements, Mother. Not for something like this." Baxter ran a hand through his hair. "On something like this, Barney wouldn't want a lot of publicity and praise. He felt that he was doing what had to be done. I doubt he even thought of himself as a hero."

"Well, we know better, don't we. And Dear, please don't make your hair even more wild than it already is," Mrs. Stockman sighed. "I wish you'd go back to that shorter, more respectable style you used to wear."

"I prefer my hair this way." Baxter shoved his free hand in his suit pocket. "You still haven't told me what you're planning for today. I would really like to give the eulogy."

"Oh, didn't I ask you to do that?" Mrs. Stockman blinked. "I was planning to. You knew your brother so much better than I did. I wouldn't know where to begin, except to talk about what a wild terror he was as a child. And that wouldn't be very appropriate for this." She peered over the crowd. "The mayor is supposed to give a speech. And of course I asked our old pastor to dedicate the grave."

" _What_ grave?!" Baxter cried. "We have nothing to bury!"

"I brought an urn. . . . Where did I put it. . . ." Mrs. Stockman turned around, studying the area with a brow furrowed in confusion. "Maybe I left it in the car. . . ."

"And what about Father?" Baxter demanded. "Isn't he coming?"

For the first time, a bit of sadness flickered in the woman's eyes. "I'm afraid not, Dear."

"Does he . . . still consider Barney disowned?" Baxter quietly asked.

"He's very conflicted," Mrs. Stockman explained. "I believe he is heartbroken over Barney's unfortunate death, but he covers it up by saying things like 'Well, he was just fixing the mess he got himself into' and 'Serves him right.'"

Baxter looked away. That sounded familiar. Apparently Barney took after their father without meaning to.

"Oh, here's the urn." Mrs. Stockman reached to the side of her chair and pulled up a white ceramic container.

Baxter saw it out of the corner of his eye, but he didn't turn to see it better. He blinked rapidly. He really hoped he wasn't going to cry here. Somehow he had held it together for the press conference, but he wasn't sure he could do that again. Especially when this felt so final, like slamming the last door of hope.

"And Dear, are you really going to carry that laptop through the entire service?!"

Now Baxter turned. "Yes, Mother, I am," he said firmly.

She shook her head. "You and that device have been inseparable for the last week. I'm really starting to worry. That can't be healthy."

"It was Barney's laptop," Baxter insisted. "He wanted me to have it."

"Well, but still. You could leave it in the car or even at home for something like this. I mean, you're surely not planning to actually use it right now."

"No, I'm not," Baxter agreed. "But it stays anyway."

Mrs. Stockman gave a resigned sigh, as though she was dealing with a stubborn child. "Very well. It's not like I can make you give it up. Oh, there's Karen." And she rushed off, urn in hand.

"Are you ever going to tell her about me, Pal?" Vincent asked.

"I don't know," Baxter replied. "As I said, I know she won't be able to accept you. She can barely accept mutants. Living computers, I'm afraid, would be too much."

"You're probably right. I'll stay hidden."

Baxter managed a smile. "Hopefully this won't go on too long and we'll be able to slip away again. . . . Maybe come back when all the crowds have gone."

"It does seem hard to properly mourn with this circus."

Baxter went over to the seats for the family and sank down on one as he looked at the throngs of reporters, social butterflies, and political figures. Vincent's description was unfortunately quite accurate. "I can just imagine what Barney would say if he were here," Baxter said wryly.

"Maybe he is," Vincent said. "Maybe we just can't see him or hear him."

Baxter shuddered, sadly closing his eyes while the winter breeze nipped at his face and hands. "Oh Barney," he whispered. "I'm sorry about all this. I know you'd never want your sacrifice to be used as a way for our parents to increase publicity and recognition of the family name. I couldn't stop this. Please forgive me."

But he just felt empty and cold and he opened his eyes again. If Barney was there, Baxter really couldn't sense him at all. Not that he had really thought he would, but it made things all the harder.

"I wish Michelangelo was right," he murmured. "But it couldn't be. It couldn't."

"If we believe Michelangelo, we'll never give up hope that someday he'll return," Vincent said. "And we'll just be hurt more."

"I know." Baxter watched as people started to sit down. It was just about time to begin.

"Have you figured out what you're going to say?" Vincent wondered.

"I think so," Baxter said. "I want to make it different from my speech at the press conference, but I suppose it will end up having some of the same themes. I just hope I can keep the focus of this funeral on Barney and not on the Stockman family in general."

"Good luck, Pal," Vincent said.

"It seems a monumental task," Baxter smirked. "But thank you."

xxxx

He wandered down another random street, keeping his coat closed against the cold. The wind blew his red hair about, getting some of it into his face. Annoyed, he swept it back.

He was tired of this. Day in and day out, it was always the same. Wander, wander, desperately try to remember, look for a meal, look for a place to sleep, fall asleep and dream of fragmented memories. Then wake up and start the entire process over again.

The strangest things could make him recall a snatch here or a snippet there. Yesterday he had passed a jewelry store and idly looked in the window at the gold bracelets. For some reason, gold made him feel uneasy and he hadn't been able to place why. Looking at the objects had brought several confusing flashes of memory to his mind. Now, as he was passing by an art museum and looking at the statues' frozen expressions in the windows, those memories were starting to sort themselves out.

A goose . . . a golden goose. . . . A dangerous and deadly weapon.

Being held in the air, desperately trying to get the goose away from . . . someone. Whispering "Gold." Dropping to the ground, free, and taking the goose from . . . a statue? A turtle statue? Its expression was permanently frozen in shock.

Trapped in an office with the goose getting closer. . . . It hadn't been alive before, but now it was. He was tempted to throw his brother to it. . . . But he hadn't. He had let his brother go free. And he . . .

A flash of light, a cry of pain and fear. . . .

Trapped again, but far worse this time . . . unable to move, to see, to hear. . . . But he could still think. And think. And think. . . .

He turned away with a gasp, covering his face with a shaking hand.

The goose had been turning things to gold. Even people.

He had turned someone to gold using the goose. He had even tried to turn his _brother_ to gold. And when he had finally done something right and let his brother go, he had got it instead. What poetic justice.

It had been a frightening, horrifying experience, still alive yet unable to function, thinking yet in a dazed fog. Trapped . . . like . . . Han Solo in carbonite.

How could he have condemned someone to that fate? How could he have even entertained the thought of doing it to his brother?!

"Who am I?" he cried in distress. " _What_ am I?! Am I completely inhuman?!"

He looked up as the sounds of people walking filled his ears. Most were ignoring him, but a few were looking over, curious, wondering who he was and why he was having a meltdown in the middle of a Manhattan street. Finally, getting his emotions under control, he shoved his hands in his pockets and walked on.

The more he remembered about himself, the more he wondered if he really wanted to remember. He was a repulsive, wretched person. It had been asinine for him to ever once entertain the idea that he could have been the one who had saved the people from that lightning gun. If anything, he was probably responsible for setting it up.

Yet even thinking that, fearing that about himself didn't make him want to end it all. He wanted to live. It was a driving force that kept him going, kept him trying to remember, kept him longing for home. New York was a big city, but it wasn't endless. Sooner or later he had to run across someone who knew him and could help him get home.

A meow startled him and he came back to the present just as a black cat marched across his feet and almost caused him to stumble. "What . . ." He grabbed onto a nearby parking meter.

"Don't let Mr. Velvet run into the street!" a panicked voice yelped.

He bent down and lifted the cat, scowling at it as he did. "You almost tripped me," he scolded.

The cat meowed and briefly struggled before flopping in his arms, the tail whipping over his right shoulder and a front paw touching his left.

A young girl with her hair in long braided pigtails rushed out and reached up for the feline. "Thanks, Mister," she said. "Mr. Velvet's always getting in trouble."

He handed the cat to her. "You should be more careful."

"I know." She hugged the animal close. "We've been trying to keep him in, but today he got out." She looked up at him. "What's your name?"

He was caught. Somehow he had always managed to bluff his way around adults, but he didn't know how to bluff with a child. They always seemed to know when someone was lying. Not that the truth would make any sense.

Still, he managed what he thought was a good escape. "What's yours?"

"I asked first."

No wonder he had never been comfortable around children. "I . . ." He cleared his throat. "I'm a scientist."

"That's not a name!" the girl scolded. "That's your oc'pation."

He desperately tried to think of another way out, any way out other than saying he couldn't remember. "My name is a secret," he said at last. Children liked secrets, right?

The girl's eyes widened. "Are you a spy?" she said in a hushed tone.

"Maybe in a way," he said.

"Okay, Mr. Scientist." The girl held out a hand. "I'm Charley."

"Charley," he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Well . . . Charlotte, really." She scrunched up her face. "I like Charley better. Do you like your name?"

He couldn't tell if it was a sincere question or just another way to try to get him to tell the name that he honestly could not remember. But he humored her by shaking her hand. "I've never really thought about whether I like it or not," he answered.

"I have to think about it 'cause people say my name all the time," said Charlotte.

"Charlotte!" came a worried voice from a nearby window.

"Oh, there's Mom now. I'd better go. Thanks for saving Mr. Velvet!" And Charlotte hurried off, her pigtails bouncing around her.

He stood and watched her go before shoving his hands back in his pockets and moving on. After a block, the wind blew a piece of black fuzz off his coat and past his eyes. He stared at it in exasperation. "Cat hair," he muttered.

xxxx

Baxter was worn-out before the funeral ever ended. He was pleased with his eulogy, at least, and the mayor's speech actually moved him. But his mother decided to talk after the mayor. And talk. And talk.

"I thought your mother didn't want to speak," Vincent whispered.

"I guess she changed her mind," Baxter groaned. "Either that or she was planning this all along, which seems more likely."

It of course wouldn't be bad if she would actually just talk about Barney. Instead, just as Baxter had feared, she was turning it into a discourse about herself and Mr. Stockman. She was making it sound as though they had done such an ideal job of raising their two boys. In private to Baxter, she had admitted they had done things all wrong. The longer she spoke, the harder Baxter was finding it to keep quiet.

"And so, today we honor and remember my darling Barney, the oldest of my twins. Even though he walked such a dark path for so long, he remembered Mr. Stockman's and my teachings at long last and returned to the light at the end."

Baxter clenched his teeth. "Our parents didn't have anything to do with it," he snarled. "Barney had more issues with them than I did! And it wasn't as though he suddenly decided to 'come back to the light.' What Shredder and Krang were doing with that lightning gun was _never_ something he was alright with! And he was trying to do the right thing before they came up with it!"

"Then tell them, Pal," Vincent insisted. "I know you don't want to create a scandal, but how can you just let this go?"

Baxter frowned. Mrs. Stockman was finally finished. Now the audience was clapping. Who clapped at funerals? The Turtles and Splinter, he noted, were standing to the stand and looking rather appalled. So did April, who was still covering the story.

"I think I will," he said. "I can find a way to say it that shouldn't cause a scandal. There's no need to air our dirty laundry in public. But I can't stand letting her make it look like Barney did what he did because of some epiphany involving her!"

"Thank you," Mrs. Stockman was saying. "This is such a hard day for me and my other son, Baxter. Before Pastor Franklin dedicates the grave, Baxter will perform a musical number, one of our favorite hymns."

Baxter's jaw dropped. "I can't sing!" he gasped.

"I thought you could," Vincent said. "You used to sing around me."

"Well, I can carry a tune, but my voice isn't the sort you'd hear on the radio. And she didn't even ask me! Oh. . . ." He slumped into the seat. He had the feeling she either thought she had or that she would use that as an excuse again if he complained.

"At least it'll get you in the spotlight again to talk," Vincent said.

"That's true." Finally Baxter stood, looking nervously to the Turtles and Splinter as he did. Michelangelo especially was staring at him with questions in his eyes. Baxter could only helplessly shake his head and go over to the microphone.

"I'm afraid I'm not prepared to sing," he said. "I'll go through with it, but first I want to say a few more words."

Mrs. Stockman stared at him, her eyes wide and confused. Baxter looked to her and then out at the audience.

"It's true that my brother made some very unwise choices that set him on a darker path in life. So did I. It's been difficult for me to accept, but I have finally come to terms with the fact that I never truly lost my goodness. Neither did Barney. No matter how much he tried to insist he was horrible-and honestly believed it!-his goodness was always there. Maybe it dimmed for a while, but it always burned bright again before long, even while he worked for Shredder and Krang. I saw it come out many times, not just at the end. He fought against several of their plans before the one that took his life. And while he was with them, he always tried to look out for me.

"And now if you'll excuse me, I'm afraid I'll have to bring up the lyrics for the song on my laptop. I didn't have enough time to practice singing it by heart." Baxter lifted the lid and balanced the laptop with one hand while his other hand flew over the keys, searching for a hymn he remember singing in church as a child.

Michelangelo nodded in approval. "That was a gnarly save," he said under his breath. "Do you amigos get the feeling that she just sprung this on him?!"

"I am afraid she did," Splinter said.

"He's sure a good sport to go through with it," Leonardo remarked.

"I think if it wasn't supposed to be a funeral for Barney, he wouldn't," Donatello said.

"Can you believe the nerve of that lady?" Raphael snorted. "Making it look like they were the all-American dream family when she knows they weren't?! When she even admitted to Baxter that they weren't?!"

"It would be too much to expect that she would tell the truth to the entire world," Splinter said. "But it is a shame that she decided to tell a lie."

At last Baxter found the lyrics. He stared out at the audience, his knees suddenly knocking. He could talk just fine in front of a crowd. He could happily perform experiments. But he couldn't recall ever before singing in public. Suddenly he was nervous and downright alarmed. It had been so many years. . . . Maybe he wouldn't remember it well enough to be able to sing it on-key. But it was the only idea that had come to him, since his mother hadn't mentioned a specific song.

His voice quavered as he tried to begin. _"God be with you till we meet again . . ."_

That didn't sound too bad. Encouraged, he kept going, his voice growing stronger as he continued the first verse.

It was hard to focus both on keeping the melody right and paying attention to what he was singing at the same time. But the longer he sang, the more he thought about the words and why he was singing right now and the more he wondered where Barney actually was. His voice caught.

Maybe he wasn't going to be able to go through with this. Maybe he was going to break down right now, in front of all these people.

"You can do this, Pal," Vincent whispered.

Baxter gave him a grateful look. Yes, he could. He had to, now that he had started it. He wouldn't break down and have Barney's funeral remembered for _that._ He made himself finish the song while blinking back tears. Then he retreated to his seat before the audience could start clapping for him.

Listening to the dedication on the grave gave him a chance to get himself better under control while almost everyone either had their eyes closed or their heads bowed. By the time the pastor was finished, Baxter had quite composed himself. He rose and thanked the man before trying to quietly get off the stand.

"Baxter?"

He looked up as his mother came over to him. "Thank you for asking me to sing ahead of time, Mother," he snapped.

"Oh, now you're sounding like Barney," she sighed. "I meant to ask you, but then I forgot until right before I mentioned it."

Baxter frowned. Any time he had gotten snippy, he had been told that he sounded like Barney. He had always been expected to be the meek and mild one. His snippy comments were a part of his personality that his parents had never accepted, but he didn't feel like arguing about that right now. Actually, he probably wouldn't have mentioned anything about the song issue if not for how upset he was by his mother's speech.

"And what if I hadn't been able to come up with something on the spur of the moment?" he exclaimed.

"I knew you could," she said. "You've always been resourceful. And you did a very beautiful job. I'm sure even Barney was moved."

"I hope so." Baxter closed the laptop. "I need to go, Mother. I don't like my brother's death being turned into a three-ring circus."

"You can't go yet!" she cried. "What about the publicity photos?"

Baxter's eyes flashed. That was the last straw. "Barney is _dead!_ This isn't the time or the place to try to whiten the family reputation! My poor brother sacrificed himself to save I don't know how many people in this city. There's not even a body! The only thing left of your son that you can bury is a tuft of hair in an urn, and you're standing here worrying about publicity photos! Well, I've had it, Mother. Maybe Barney was right about you. Maybe I shouldn't have let you back into my life either." And he stormed over to the Turtles and Splinter.

Mrs. Stockman stared after him for a long moment. Then she shuddered, sickened by the realization that there had actually been _mutants_ at the funeral. She turned away, looking for the photographer.

Michelangelo glowered after her and laid a hand on Baxter's shoulder. "Hey, Baxter. You did real good. I didn't even know you could sing."

"It's not something I advertise," Baxter mumbled, hugging the laptop close. "Do you think anyone heard that altercation?"

"I don't think so," Leonardo said. "You were angry, but you weren't speaking too loud. We couldn't hear you over the sounds of the crowd talking and the photographers snapping pictures."

Baxter sighed. "But it was obvious I was angry. The tabloids will be printing that, you can be sure."

"Eh, they'll probably just think you were ticked off at having that performance sprung on you," Raphael shrugged.

"Most likely," Splinter agreed. "I am certain you do not have to worry."

"Maybe not," Baxter conceded, "but it will be a minor incident anyway. I didn't want to cause anything upsetting to happen. Then Mother was going on about the publicity photos and I just couldn't take it anymore."

"You had a perfect right to be angry," Donatello said. "It's something to be angry about."

"Come on, Dude," Michelangelo said soothingly. "Let's get out of this place."

"Yes. Let's." Baxter looked up ahead to the gate. "I don't want to come back until everyone has left."

Michelangelo blinked. "You're really gonna come back? Like, at night?" He gulped.

"I'm not afraid of cemeteries, Michelangelo," Baxter said. "Or the dead. What distresses me to no end is that this memorial for Barney is really meant as a beacon to the Stockman corporate empire and my mother's social status." He spat the words in disgust. "Poor Barney won't want any part of it."

"Then, like, why come back?" Michelangelo asked.

"So that at least I for one can try to use the memorial for what it _should_ be used for," Baxter said softly. "And . . . just in case, for some reason, it would be easier to sense Barney here."

"I hope you will find some peace here when you return," Splinter said kindly.

"Thank you," said Baxter. "And I hope that if Mother genuinely cares about Barney, she will start thinking more about him than about herself."

"I suppose there is the chance that her actions here are simply how she grieves," Splinter said. "It is a different process for everyone."

"I guess," Baxter said, but he looked doubtful. "I'd like to believe that, and maybe I should, but unlike with Barney, I'm afraid our mother hasn't shown me any real reason why I should trust her."

"But if she did, I'm guessing you'd extend the same trust to her that you did to Barney," Raphael said.

"Yes," said Baxter. "When she first came to me, I felt that I owed her the chance to see if she was sincere. I'm afraid my faith in that has been shaken, but I would still give her another chance if I felt I was wrong or that she had changed."

"You're a good guy, Baxter," Vincent spoke up.

"Well, that's one thing HAL and I can agree on," Raphael remarked.

"What is this 'HAL' joke?" Vincent retorted. "Barney used one too. He said it had something to do with a computer in some old movie."

"Maybe you should get Baxter to show it to you sometime," Raphael said lightly.

"Oh, I'm not going to show him _that,_ " Baxter retorted.

"Good point," said Raphael. "We don't want to give him ideas."

"That isn't what I meant," Baxter said, rolling his eyes. With Raphael, it was always hard to know when he was teasing and when he was serious. Right now, Baxter imagined that he was teasing, but that at the same time, his distrust of Vincent was coming through. Baxter hoped that in the future, he could help Raphael to see that Vincent was not dangerous.

For the time being, however, he just wanted to go home and not think about this nightmarish disaster of a funeral.

xxxx

Splinter was somewhat surprised when he found Michelangelo in Donatello's lab that night. "Michelangelo, what are you doing here?" he asked.

Michelangelo's shoulders slumped. "I've been trying so hard to keep the faith, Sensei. . . . We don't have a body and I really wanted to believe that meant there was hope that Barney's okay. But . . ." He shook his head. "It doesn't seem like it. Not really. Especially after the funeral today." He blinked back tears. "I was looking for the dimensional radio. I thought that maybe . . . I don't know, that the Neutrinos would have another of those time-travel eggs and we could go back to the past and . . ." He swallowed hard. "Keep Barney from biting the big one. . . ."

Splinter gave the Turtle a kind but regretful look. "I know this has been a very difficult experience for you, my son. Neither you nor the others have ever encountered death before."

"We've seen people die before," Michelangelo mumbled. "That alien who crashed his ship way back when Shredder started looking for the Eye of Sarnoth. . . ."

"Yes, but that is not the same thing as the death of someone you have known and even come to care about," Splinter said.

"I know." Michelangelo half-heartedly brushed aside some more parts and pieces of Donatello's inventions. "That's why I want to find that radio. . . ."

Splinter sighed. "Time is not something to tamper with, Michelangelo. The only reason it worked before was because Shredder had set time out of alignment by sending all of you and Dr. Stockman through his dimensional portal to the future. By coming back here, you set time aright again."

"But why is it right for Barney to be dead?!" Michelangelo cried in despair. "Baxter's mondo bummed and that alien computer is too! And I . . . I never got to tell him I was sorry for lying to him about Baxter. . . ."

"I do not know why anyone has to die," Splinter said quietly, "only that death is a part of life. And sometimes we bring about our own demises. Barney's death came because of his choices."

"But . . . some people can get miracles." Michelangelo's voice was very small. "Why couldn't he, especially when he was trying to do the right thing?"

"Many people do not receive miracles, even when they are doing the right thing," Splinter answered.

"That's not right." Michelangelo shook his head. "It shouldn't be that way." He trudged out of the lab and over to Splinter.

After a moment of thought, Splinter spoke again. "Perhaps there were miracles, just not the one we had hoped for. Perhaps the miracle was in Barney's desire to do the right thing. Perhaps the miracle was in his softening heart throughout these last months. He made so much progress with his brother. After the way they have been so estranged most of their lives, that was most definitely a miracle."

"But if he's dead, does it really matter?" Michelangelo morosely asked.

"It matters a great deal," Splinter said. "I'm certain it gives Baxter some level of comfort. And wherever Barney is, perhaps it is helping him as well. Perhaps now he has truly found peace." He laid a hand on Michelangelo's shoulder. "We must hope and pray that he has. And pray that Baxter can find peace as well."

Michelangelo clenched a fist. ". . . I still want to pray that Barney's alive and he'll come back. Even with how mondo bummed I've been getting, in the end I just don't wanna give up."

"How could he be alive, Michelangelo?" came Leonardo's sad voice as he joined the conversation. "There was no place for him to go. If he made it out of the building, why didn't he come back then? Would he really leave Baxter and Vincent to suffer, knowing how heartbroken they'd be?"

"Well . . ." Michelangelo gave a weak shrug. "What if he was hurt or something? Like, not remembering who he is? He wouldn't know where to come back to!"

Splinter gave him a sad smile. "I fear that sort of event only happens in fiction."

"But the search-and-rescue crews never found anything," Michelangelo protested. "No body, no . . . fragments of a body . . . nothing!"

"Baxter found the only fragment left," Leonardo gently told him.

"Yeah? And why was that piece of hair still around if nothing else was?" Michelangelo countered.

"Strange things happen in explosions," Splinter said. "Sometimes one or two fragments will survive, but nothing else will."

"What if the strange thing is the person getting out alive?" Michelangelo retorted.

Leonardo looked to Splinter. "Somehow I think that the more we try to convince Michelangelo that it couldn't be, the more determined he becomes to insist it _could_ be."

Splinter agreed. "Your faith is admirable, Michelangelo," he said. "But when it is for something impossible, you will only get hurt."

"Then I guess I'll just have to get hurt," Michelangelo retorted. "Because I don't wanna say it's impossible yet. Barney deserves another chance. And I want to believe he's still going to get it." He headed over to the telephone. "I'm gonna start calling hospitals and find out if any red-haired dudes with amnesia have been brought in over the last few days."

Finally Leonardo gave a sad smile of resignation. There was no way to convince Michelangelo not to do this. So he said, "If you're going to do that, you should probably just describe Barney and ask if anyone like that has been brought in at all, amnesia or not."

Michelangelo paused. "Yeah, you're probably right." He grabbed the phone book.

xxxx

The cemetery was cold and dark that night. Baxter slipped over the low fence, clutching the laptop close as he stole among the trees and headstones, following the path that he had memorized earlier that day. He had to admit the place looked eerie in the nighttime. It was certainly easy to see how ghost stories could spring up with the unsettling shapes and sounds and simply the feeling of knowing that death was everywhere. But Baxter's words to Michelangelo were true. He wasn't afraid.

Of course, he wasn't alone, either.

He lifted the lid on the laptop as he arrived at the spot where they had held the funeral. It was so different now, without the crowds and people talking and cameras flashing. But it was right.

"We've come back, Barney," he said softly, setting the laptop next to him on the stone bench. "Are you here?"

The only response was the nipping of a winter breeze.

"What do we do now, Baxter?" Vincent asked.

Baxter looked down at the fresh dirt. "We . . ." His voice caught in his throat and he trembled. "We mourn properly, without the entire city watching." He bowed his head. "God be with you till we meet again, Brother. And until we do . . . we'll never stop missing you."

For a moment they remained silent, thinking on good memories of their loved one and absorbing the atmosphere of the cemetery.

"I know humans usually leave flowers at graves," Vincent said. "Did Barney even like flowers?"

Baxter had to chuckle. "He didn't _dis_ like them. But he was usually too caught up in his inventions to think much on them one way or another."

"So what should we leave?"

"I don't think Barney would turn down any sincere gift." Baxter set a few flowers on top of the dirt.

"Do you think he really is here, old pal?" Vincent sounded wistful now.

"I don't know," Baxter said softly. "I've heard a theory that the dead know when they're being talked about and they'll come. But if that's true . . . maybe he's been with us all along." He sighed and stood, lifting the laptop into his arms. "Poor Barney. . . ."

He cast a last sad look at the grave before trudging off with Vincent.

xxxx

Several days later, Raphael was wandering down an old Manhattan street with a deep frown. There had been reports of Shredder in the nearby area and all the Turtles were trying to investigate. If Shredder was around, Bebop and Rocksteady likely were as well.

"No sign of them here," he muttered to himself. "I might as well . . ."

He trailed off at the sight of someone slowly limping up ahead. Someone who looked awfully familiar from behind. The white lab coat peeking from under a winter coat, the wild red hair that went past his shoulders. . . . The height and weight, the small body frame. . . .

"No way," Raphael gasped. "It couldn't be."

He ran forward. "Hey! Hey, you!"

The person started and turned. There was no recognition in his eyes, but as he took in the sight of a huge Turtle barreling towards him, those eyes widened in fear and he fled around the side of a building as quickly as he possibly could.

Raphael chased after him. But although he arrived around the same corner only seconds later, there was no longer any sign of the strangely frightened character.

"What's going on around here?!" His voice shook. "Who was that? _What_ was that?" He clenched his teeth. "Maybe Shred-Head's trying out some new kind of holograms. That would be just like Krang to think of something cruel like that!" He gripped the edge of the building. "The only thing I know for sure is that that _wasn't_ Barney Stockman. It couldn't be. I couldn't have seen a dead man. . . ."

But he felt an eerie chill go up his spine, and it wasn't from the winter weather.

xxxx

He pressed himself against the interior of the building, his heart wildly thumping in his chest. Who was that? _What_ was that? A giant, talking Turtle? It had sounded so angry, so confrontational. . . . What could he have done to spark its wrath?

Turtles. . . . Talking Turtles. . . .

A Turtle telling jokes in an underground laboratory, hooked up to an invention of his that . . . magnified the jokes' laughability factor? What?

A Turtle leaping in front of his brother with two small but sharp weapons bared, glowering, protecting his brother from . . . someone. . . .

A Turtle screaming his hatred for someone having turned another Turtle to gold. . . .

Always the same Turtle. And . . . _he_ was always the focus of said Turtle's anger. . . .

"I . . . we know each other," he gasped. He moved to open the door and look for the mutant, but two vicious spikes drilled into the door above him before he could do so.

"Well, what have we here?"

The voice was deep and menacing and filled with hatred. He looked up into the face of a very tall man towering over him. Or . . . what he could see of the face. Half of it was covered by a metal mask.

"I don't believe it," Metal-Face chortled. "It's you. The traitor." He reached down, grabbing him by the collar of his coat. "I never thought I'd see you again on the mortal plane." He lifted the struggling man off the floor. "You're supposed to have received a very explosive cremation, your ashes scattered all over the wreckage of that building. They gave you a very nice funeral the other day."

"Let me go!" he shrieked. "So you're responsible?! You tried to kill me?!"

"I?" Metal-Face brought him closer to his face. "You're the one who set off that explosion. You're the one who destroyed our beautiful lightning gun. You wanted to get rid of it so badly that you were willing to blow yourself up with it!"

"Why . . . why would I do that?" He hung there now, no longer struggling, honestly confused and perplexed and wanting to know more. He had already determined he couldn't have been that person. Not if that person was trying to save lives. . . .

"How should I know?" Metal-Face retorted. "The most likely answer is because all along you were never the bad guy we thought you were. You were one of _them._ " And he threw his captive away from him, where he crashed in a heap on the floor.

"Them?" He rose up, his arms shaking as he tried to balance himself on them. "I _am_ bad! I hate my brother. I could never be good!"

"Oh, that tired routine won't work on me anymore!" Metal-Face stood over him, arms akimbo. "We know you _don't_ hate your brother. You love him so much you're haunted by what you did to hurt him!" He kicked him in the ribs, causing him to fall flat on the floor again. "Now, do you know what I do to traitors?"

"Kill them, probably," he muttered.

"Very good!" Metal-Face dug his fingers into the long red hair and jerked the man's head painfully back. "But I like to have a little fun with them first."

He braced himself for the worst, even as he desperately wondered what to do to get out of this mess. If he screamed for help, would anyone hear him? Would that Turtle hear him? Would dealing with him be any better than dealing with this character?

. . . Well, the Turtle obviously cared about his brother, so that surely meant that he and Metal-Face were on opposite sides. . . . His brother wasn't a criminal, and this person surely was. . . .

"Hey, Boss!" 

He looked up with a start. Two more mutants were coming into the room. But instead of turtles, these seemed to be . . . a rhinoceros and a warthog. They looked rather stupid, but they were big and strong. He cringed. He was doomed.

"What is it, you fools?" Metal-Face snapped.

"One of the Turtles was just hangin' around," said the warthog. "We'd better clear out of here."

"Fine. We'll take care of this wretched traitor elsewhere." Metal-Face let go of the hair and straightened. "Bebop, take him. Rocksteady, go out and make sure the coast is clear!"

"Sure thing, Boss." But the rhinoceros paused. "Hey! Is that really . . . ?!"

"Yes, it is!" Metal-Face growled. "He isn't in a million pieces after all. But after we're through with him, he'll wish he really had died in that explosion."

"We're gonna hurt him?" Rocksteady blinked.

"That's the understatement of the year," Metal-Face snarled. "Now stop wasting time! Go outside and look!"

"Okay, Boss." Rocksteady departed.

Bebop came over and knelt next to him. "You really are alive," he said in amazement. "We all thought sure you was dead."

"I . . ." He backed up with new fear. "Do you really want to hurt me the way your . . . boss does?"

Bebop shrugged. "Nah, not really. I don't hate you or nothin'. Even after what you did. But I'd like to know why you did it."

"I . . . I don't remember." There was nothing else he could say, no way he could bluff his way out of this the way he had tried to do with Bebop's boss. . . . The way he had tried to do many times with that man . . . and also with a little pink creature . . . an alien brain?

That was in the past. Today, he was completely vulnerable.

"You don't?" Bebop stared at him. "How could you forget somethin' like that?"

He looked from Bebop to Metal-Face, who was peering out a window and not paying attention to them at all. Maybe . . . maybe he would have to take a chance and try to get this mutant to help him. Right now, it seemed to be his only chance.

"My memory is almost completely gone," he said. "I only remember bits and pieces."

Bebop looked shocked. "Your memory's gone?!" he gasped. "But you was a great scientist! So you can't be anymore?!"

"I can't be anything if your boss has his way," he retorted. "If you don't hate me, do you really want to see me harmed?"

"Me and Rocksteady just do what we're told," Bebop said. "We always liked you. But we're still workin' for the boss. If he wants you hurt, that's what we'll do."

"Does he often tell you to hurt people you like?"

"Nah. But then again, we don't like many people."

He looked to Metal-Face and back again. There couldn't be much time left to try to get the mutant on his side. Maybe it was futile anyway, but he wasn't one to give up easily.

"Why don't you hate me, if I betrayed your boss?" he asked.

"Gee, I don't know," Bebop said. "I was kind of mad at first. But then I figured you must have had a pretty good reason. You were tellin' Rocksteady and me about all the people who would die and I got worrying about my mom. I think that's why you did it; to save those people. I don't think you would've done it just out of spite or somethin' like that, even though you didn't like the boss. After all, you liked Krang better and you betrayed him too."

"If you don't hate me, then why not help me get away?" He spoke low now. "Just block your boss's view and allow me to get out that window or through that door over there. I won't just be hurt when he's finished. I'll be dead, and no doubt in some grotesque and gruesome manner."

Bebop frowned. "I don't want you to be dead," he said. "I don't want to have anything to do with that. You was a really strong guy. You made me and Rocksteady think. Well, me at least. When your memory's gone, I don't see what point there is in hurtin' you more anyway. That's already the worst thing that could happen to somebody." He stood and stepped in front of the window they were nearest to.

"Thank you," he said quietly as he pushed it open and started to climb out. His bruised leg was giving him a bit of trouble. But Bebop gave him a final push to help and then closed the window after him. He fell to his knees outside, but quickly struggled up and limped away as Metal-Face started to roar through the walls behind him.

xxxx

Raphael was still shook up when he regrouped with the other Turtles back at the Van.

"Raphael, what happened to you?!" Leonardo exclaimed.

"Yeah. Like, you look like you saw a ghost," said Michelangelo.

"What about Shredder?" Donatello wanted to know.

"Michelangelo is closer to the truth." Raphael folded his arms and looked away. "I saw a ghost. Or a hologram. One of the two."

"Raphael." Leonardo came closer, serious now. "What did you see?"

Raphael looked back to him with a start. "I saw Barney, okay?!"

Donatello gasped. "But . . . you couldn't have!"

Michelangelo ran over, his eyes wide in excitement and triumph. "Then he _is_ alive!"

"No, he's not. For crying out loud, Michelangelo, he's not!" Raphael's eyes were flashing. "It's probably some cruel new hologram program of Shred-Head's. Barney didn't even know me. He turned and looked right at me like he was seeing a stranger. Then he just panicked and ran. It only took me a few seconds to catch up with him, and when I did, he was gone. There was no place he could have gone that fast! Not if he was alive! All the nearby doors were locked!"

"Maybe one of them wasn't!" Michelangelo insisted. "Raphael, why can't you believe it even when you're looking at it?!"

"Because there's no way, _no way_ he could have survived!" Raphael boomed. Then the frustration was gone and his voice was very small as he continued, "And because if he did, it looks like he doesn't remember anything. And what kind of life is that?" He covered his eyes with a hand. "I'd rather believe he's dead."

Leonardo laid a hand on Raphael's shoulder. "But if he _is_ alive, there's always hope," he said quietly. "He could get his memory back. We can't just sweep this under a rock and ignore it. We'll have to investigate."

"Are we gonna tell Baxter?" Michelangelo asked.

Raphael jerked his hand away from his eyes. "Are you nuts?!"

"I think we should try to find out for sure what's going on before we tell Baxter anything," Donatello said. "It would be horrible if it really is just a hologram program and we've got him thinking Barney is alive."

Michelangelo cringed. "You're right, Dude. Okay, we won't tell him yet." But he smiled as he turned away. "But we'll tell him soon, because Barney _is_ alive! I know it!"

xxxx

Baxter sighed as he sat in his office, typing up his report on his latest scientific investigation for the news. The news in general had been a dread since the funeral. His mother's insistence on using it to build her reputation had been working, and Baxter was sick of hearing about it.

Channel 6, at least, hadn't focused much on that element. April had tried to base her report more on Baxter's part in things, the mayor's speech, and those who had turned out to pay their respects to Barney. Baxter had been grateful.

"Dr. Stockman?"

He looked up at Vernon's voice. The news director was standing in the doorway, looking both sympathetic and hesitant.

"What is it, Mr. Fenwick?" Baxter asked.

"I . . ." Vernon shifted. "I just saw the footage Channel 9 has been running of the funeral. I can relate all too well; my family is the same way." He looked down. "I just hope that I'm not. . . ."

"You're not," Baxter said with a kind and touched smile. "You didn't try to twist the mirror incident around for your own benefit, not when someone was hurt. You wouldn't do it if someone died."

Vernon shifted, gripping the doorframe. "It must have been so difficult, watching your mother do that."

"It was," Baxter agreed. "I was very angry. I told her off after it was over. I haven't heard from her since then."

"You . . . you told her off?" Vernon stared at him in disbelieving amazement. "I could never do that with my family."

"I never thought I could do it either," Baxter admitted. "I thought it would be . . . disrespectful, I suppose. But the way she used Barney's death for her own purposes wasn't respectful!" His eyes darkened. "I couldn't tolerate that."

"What if she doesn't ever contact you again?" Vernon wondered. "Will you try to reach out to her?"

Baxter paused. "I've been wondering that myself," he said quietly. "I don't know. I guess maybe I should, just to see what she'd have to say for herself. . . . She might not contact me because of what I said right before I left. I told her that maybe Barney was right and I shouldn't have let her back into my life." His shoulders slumped. "Was I too harsh?"

"I'm afraid I'm not the person you should ask," Vernon said. "I'm horrified by the very thought of saying something like that to your parents. But . . . if they have always mistreated you and your brother and your mother is continuing to do so now . . . maybe she deserved your words."

Baxter slowly nodded. "That's what I've been trying to tell myself." He took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. "I'm trying so hard to be more assertive and bold when it counts. It's so hard. So very hard."

Vernon stared at him in surprise. "I never would have known you weren't always that way," he said. "You've always been that way with me. . . . Except there was that one time when you acted more like a kicked puppy after I snapped at you. . . ."

A wry smirk played on Baxter's lips. "I was having a bad day and slipped back into my old ways. Yes, Mr. Fenwick, I spent most of my life as a 'kicked puppy' until I finally just snapped. Unfortunately, then I went overboard the other direction. Now I'm trying to find a happy medium . . . but the part of me that's still a doormat keeps worrying that I'm out of line and I have no right. The other part insists that I do have a right when I or a loved one is being mistreated."

"I had no idea." Vernon shook his head. "You've always seemed like you have it together so well."

"I try." Baxter replaced his glasses. "I was always misunderstood and put down by everyone I encountered: family, acquaintances, strangers. . . . I always knew I was better than I was being treated, but actually putting that into practice was something else altogether. It took a lot of courage to not be everyone's doormat.

"I saw some of myself in you when I realized you were stronger than everyone thought you were. I wanted you to find your strength as I had tried to find mine."

"And you have helped me," Vernon said. "I'm still struggling, but I'm doing so much better than I ever was before."

"I've seen that," Baxter smiled. "So have Miss O'Neil and Miss Langinstein. You've finally started to let them in. They love it. And they like the person you really are deep down, the person you always tried to hide."

"Well . . ." Vernon looked awkward. "So I'm sure that you will find the answers you need. If you haven't already. Maybe it's not so much that you're searching for an answer as it is you're trying to make sure that the answer you've already chosen is the right one."

"You're probably right," Baxter said. "I really believe I was within my rights . . . and Barney's. But part of me still worries and doubts. Maybe I'll wait a little longer and see what happens. If I still don't hear from my mother, maybe I should try one more time to have a civil conversation with her. If at that time I see that she is behaving as shallowly as she seemed, perhaps then I will break things off calmly and rationally."

"You're far braver and bolder than I am," Vernon insisted.

Baxter tilted his head to the side. "You've shown you can stand up to people if you're properly motivated or provoked. If you're within your rights, someday even you may be able to stand up to your family."

"Maybe." Vernon sounded doubtful. "But I'll be happy to talk more if you need a listening ear."

"Thank you," Baxter said sincerely.

Vincent spoke once Vernon had left. "I've never heard you open up to him before."

"I haven't," Baxter mused. "I've tried to help him, but I've tried to keep myself closed off. And today I confided in him. Maybe I felt he would understand, since he also comes from a wealthy family."

"I always thought he was a dolt," said Vincent.

Baxter chuckled. "So did I at first." He leaned back and gazed up at the ceiling. "We've all changed so much since then. . . ." He sounded wistful now.

"That's good, isn't it?"

"For the most part, yes." Baxter looked to Vincent. "I still wish Barney was here to continue to share it all with us. I always will."

"Grief . . . never goes away, does it?"

"Not entirely." Baxter sat up straight and took a pen off his desk, turning it over and over in his hands. "We heal, we move on, we even find happiness again. But we never forget what we've lost."

"Having emotions . . . feelings . . . loving . . . is complicated."

Baxter smiled a bit. "It is for humans as well as computers." He gave Vincent a curious look. "Were you always the way you are? So . . . well, human, I mean."

"I was always curious, always wanting to learn more," Vincent said. "I had no set programming. The nature of my creation enabled me to think for myself, to grow and develop like any sentient species."

"That reminds me of the film _Bicentennial Man_ ," Baxter remarked. "It's about a robot that always sought to be human. By the end of it, he had made himself human in every way . . . unless, being artificially created, he didn't have a soul." He frowned. "His wife felt that he did, though. The question wasn't answered, but it's nicer to think that by being so alive and full of life, he had been granted one."

"How is one granted a soul?"

"I couldn't even begin to imagine," Baxter shook his head. "And I know it's probably sacrilegious to say it, but it's very hard for me to believe that you don't have one."

"Then I would like to think I do."

"I would too," Baxter said. "And I never once thought I would even think such a thing about a computer."

"You feel computers are inferior lifeforms then."

Baxter smirked a bit. "Just as you feel that humans are. However, there are always exceptions to those ideas."

"Yes," Vincent agreed. "There are."


	3. Chapter 3

It was a nice kitchen. The sun was coming through the sheer white curtains, highlighting parts of the smooth table. Crudely drawn pictures courtesy of young grandchildren decorated the refrigerator. The scent of fresh baked bread filled the air and permeated through the old apartment.

It was a nice apartment. Photographs of a life well-lived were on every wall, cabinet, and the piano. Knick-knacks, flowers, and books filled up the other spaces. Faded but loved doilies and small throws were draped on furniture and tables.

"Dear? Dear, are you sure you're alright?"

He looked up as she entered the kitchen, the day's mail in her apron pocket. She was a nice old lady. She had brought him in without question when she had found him wandering down the street and had made sure he got a good meal. Each time it happened he found it more amazing, not less. How could so many people be willing to be kind to a complete stranger?

One thing was sure: they wouldn't feel so congenial if they really knew who he was and what he had done. They would all throw him into the street, where he belonged. He should tell them, he supposed, and not accept their kindnesses. But he still wanted to live, even if he didn't deserve to. And right now, he didn't know how to get by without their kindnesses. Maybe someday he could try to repay them.

"Yes," he replied. "Yes, I'm alright."

His voice still sounded unfamiliar to him. So high-pitched, so nasally. Was that really his normal voice?

She didn't mind. She accepted it, as she accepted him in general.

But she wasn't convinced he was well. She sat down opposite from him, peering into his dark eyes. "What was it you saw before you came here?" she asked softly. "It must have been something terrible."

He didn't answer. He didn't want to talk about his encounter with Metal-Face. He was still reeling from being told that he was indeed the person who had destroyed the lightning gun, and for an apparently good reason. He wasn't good. How was it possible he could have done that? There had to have been a mistake somewhere.

"Are you a religious man?" she queried now.

He looked to her with a start. "No, I'm not." He remembered that. "God . . . wouldn't want someone like me."

She gave him a gently reproving look. "Why not let Him be the judge of that?" A slight pause, then, "Do you mind if I pray for you?"

He just stared at her. "Why?"

"Because if anyone needs it, you do." She clasped her hands on the table and bowed her head, praying softly in Hebrew.

Nice old Jewish lady.

He listened, but not understanding the words, his mind wandered. And as the woman prayed, it seemed as though more memories were being unlocked.

Vincent . . . where was Vincent? Had he been in the collapsing building? No . . . he had made sure Vincent wouldn't be there. . . . He had . . . taken Vincent to his brother's apartment. And Vincent had stayed there because . . . he had no choice. Vincent was a computer. An alien computer.

His brother loved him. . . . But he hated his brother. Why?

So many broken dreams. . . . So many attempts to be the best. . . . Always overshadowed, always beaten back. . . . But . . . it wasn't his brother's fault. People loved him more. He was so meek, so mild . . . or he had been until he hadn't been able to take the abuse any longer.

Abuse? What abuse?

Metal-Face . . . no, Shredder. . . . Shredder had abused him . . . hated him. . . . Never acted grateful even when he did something right. He and . . . Krang . . . had tried to kill him. Failed. Fused him by accident with a fly. He had suffered in that state until several months ago. He was human again now.

That was why his brother's hair was shorter. It had been short and static when fused with the fly. When released, it had gone back to the length it had been when he was last human. Meanwhile, his own hair had been growing naturally during that time.

Shredder had been his employer as well. Why had he worked for the man who had hurt his brother? . . . He had felt wanted, accepted. That had been more important to him than anything else, even working for a criminal. His brother-Baxter . . . yes, his name was Baxter-had been more than half-insane when agreeing to work for Shredder after being liberated from the insane asylum. But he . . . he couldn't claim that. He had been completely sane.

He hated Baxter. . . . Tried to kill him. . . .

He stiffened, covering his face with a shaking hand. This was getting far, far worse than he had even thought. How many more horrible revelations were going to come to light about him? Now he had actually tried to commit fratricide?!

Had he meant to do it? Had he just been so blind with anger that he hadn't known _what_ he was doing?

He had chased Baxter, swinging a crowbar. Baxter had been so terrified. . . . He had hit him. . . . Baxter had gone down, so still . . . just like when they were kids and he had tripped while being chased.

No, he wasn't dead . . . thank God, he wasn't dead. But that didn't change what had been done. There was no forgiveness. There could be no forgiveness for such wicked, such cruel, such heartless behavior. It was a mockery to pray to God for someone like him!

He looked up, shaken, panic-stricken as he focused on the woman. She was finishing her prayer and looking up to meet his gaze. "What is it?" she asked kindly. "What's wrong?"

He stumbled back from the chair, nearly knocking it over in his desperation to get up. "I . . . I'm not worthy," he gasped. "Please . . . please don't pray for me."

She got up as well, worried for him all the more. "None of us are worthy!" she protested. "But He still loves us anyway! He wants to hear from us and help us! He wants to be part of our lives!"

"You don't understand." He looked at her, agonized. He had to make her understand. He couldn't let her think he was someone decent! "I tried to kill my brother!"

Her eyes widened in shock. But then the look passed. "And you are obviously unable to deal with it. You have remorse. So much remorse. Is he alright?"

"Yes, no thanks to me," he said bitterly. "I worked for an interdimensional criminal. Two of them, actually. I tried to help them conquer the world. . . . I turned my brother's friend to gold. . . . I tried to turn my brother to gold too. . . ." He shook his head. "There's no redemption for someone like me!"

Now her eyes were stunned again, but for a different reason. "Wait a minute. You! You're the one in the paper." She hurried over to a small table in the living room and opened a newspaper. "The one who was supposedly killed trying to blow up the lightning gun before it could be used to murder millions of people!"

He took the paper, his hands shaking. The story was there, just as she had said. Baxter had held a press conference and explained the situation, pleading with the people not to see his brother as a villain any longer, but as a hero. So many in the city now owed their lives to him. . . .

His hands trembled more. He had wondered at first if that person was him, but then he had rejected the very idea. It couldn't have been him, not when he was so horrible. But then Shredder had said it was him and now, seeing this story . . . now he remembered.

He had been tricked into building the final component for the lightning gun. Before long he had grown suspicious, but had kept building it to prevent Krang from finding someone else to build it who wouldn't care. When he had realized its intended purpose, he had stolen it back before anyone could die. He had adjusted the controls so that the machine would implode. . . . And he had known he wasn't likely to escape the blast or the subsequent collapse of the building. He had resigned himself to death, the only direction his life could take after backing himself into a corner by working for Shredder and Krang.

He had tried to escape nevertheless. He remembered running out of the shaft where the lightning gun was set to implode . . . flying down the stairs. . . . The implosion had violently rocked the building. It had started coming down almost immediately afterwards. He had stumbled . . . gripped the banister for dear life . . . and kept running. He had fallen more than once, tumbling down stairs before crashing hard against landings. A piece of hair had been caught in a door and he had tore free, leaving it behind in his panic to escape.

He didn't know how he had survived. The last thing he remembered was the building caving in around him and knowing he was done for. Then he had regained consciousness, lying on the cold, hard cement just to the side of the wreckage. But he hadn't been fully aware of himself or anything, really. He had gotten up and started to wander . . . and wander. . . .

Some people had thought he was drunk or on drugs. They had called him cruel names. Some had thrown things at him to make him move on. That was about what he had expected.

But other people had recognized that he was hurt. They had given him food, let him rest in their businesses or homes. . . . They had tried to find out who he was, but he didn't know. He only knew that he was terrified of hospitals. He wouldn't go to a hospital. And he had tried his hardest to hide his injuries so he wouldn't be sent to one.

Now he remembered why it had alarmed him so much. He feared being arrested and sent to prison if he was in the hospital. He knew he deserved it, yet he could not bear the thought of it. And now . . . now here was Baxter, trying to de-vilify him in the city's eyes. Of course Baxter would do that.

"You've been honored as a hero," she told him. "Some people have been leaving flowers at the wreckage of the building. And your funeral was a highly publicized event. Even the mayor spoke."

"I don't deserve that," he said in dismay. "It was my stupidity and arrogance that caused the lightning gun to be operational in the first place."

"And don't you think you paid dearly for your 'stupidity and arrogance' by destroying the lightning gun at the risk of your own life?" she replied. "Maybe you even saved my life or my children's or grandchildren's. Who knows how many people!"

He looked at her. "Then you don't think I'm a monster, even after what I've told you?"

"Not when I've seen you for myself," she said with a shake of her head. "You're a good man. A bad man wouldn't be wracked with such deep feelings of torment and guilt for his sins. You were given a blessing, a chance to start over and try again. Are you going to take it?"

It was so much to take in. He had considered his survival a fluke or dumb luck. But a blessing? That sounded so sacrilegious when he felt so unworthy to even be prayed for. He had certainly heard the teachings that God wanted the sinners to come back, that the angels rejoiced over even one repentant soul. But he had never thought it applied to him. It had never seemed possible.

"Of course I'll take it," he said slowly. "But I . . . don't know what to do."

The woman looked at him. "Your poor brother is grieving so deeply over you," she said. "Why have you stayed away?"

"I didn't remember who I was," he said helplessly. It was the second time that day that he had confessed to that truth. "But I . . . I'm remembering more now."

"If you remember him, you should go back to him."

"I . . ." He shook his head. "He's better off thinking I'm dead. I never did anything but hurt him."

"If you stay away, you'll just keep on hurting him more!" she retorted. "Does he deserve that?"

"No." He shut his eyes tightly. "He never deserved to have such a horrible brother. He deserved all the best life could have offered him. Instead, I helped make his life Hell on Earth. He's only started to find happiness the last several months."

"But he was always worried about you. If you want to make his happiness complete, you'll go back to him and let him see that you're alive!"

He looked away. "Let me think about it," he requested. "Please . . . don't call him yourself. Leave the decision up to me."

"I'm not a meddler. Of course it's your decision," she replied. "I just hope you'll make the right one."

"So do I," he said quietly.

xxxx

Again the Turtles met back at the Van, all of them shaken and frustrated.

"You see?" Raphael cried in frustration. "Now whatever I saw is nowhere to be found! And neither is Shredder!" He hit the Van with his fist. "It must have been a hologram. Now Shred-Head's skipped out and taken it with him and who knows where it'll turn up next!"

"Do you really think he'd do that?" Donatello frowned. "I mean, of course he's capable of the utmost cruelty, but after what Barney did to him and Krang, you'd think he wouldn't want to remind himself of it all the more. At least, not until some more time passes by."

"Oh, I don't know," Raphael retorted in disgust and frustration. "If it wasn't a hologram, it was a ghost."

"Or it was Barney, alive and not so well," Michelangelo frowned. "Come on, Dudes! We've gotta keep looking! If Tin Grin's around, he might find Barney first and that would be a maximum disaster! Especially if he really doesn't remember!"

"Michelangelo's right," Leonardo said. "We can't give up."

"You know, maybe I didn't even see what I thought I saw," Raphael said. "Maybe it was all in my head."

"Raphael, we all believe you," Donatello said. "And deep down, you really know you saw what you think you saw. The question is, what _did_ you see?"

Michelangelo hit the Van with his palm. "Too bad I can't have a dream or a feeling now that would tell us where Barney is," he muttered.

Leonardo laid a hand on his shoulder. "I wish you could," he said. "But you can still be plenty helpful without any premonitions. Let's spread out and do one more sweep of the area before we call it quits."

"And if we don't find him, then what?" Raphael asked.

Leonardo sighed. "Then maybe we'd better tell Baxter so he can be on the look-out too. And the Channel 6 crew. If Barney is alive and hurt, we need to find him before nightfall."

"If Barney's alive and hurt, I wonder where he's been for the last several days," Raphael shot back. "And where did he get that winter coat?"

"We'll worry about that later." Leonardo pushed away from the Van. "Let's go, Turtles!"

They all scattered, praying this time they'd have better luck. If there was any better luck to be had.

xxxx

Baxter left his report with Burne and headed back to his office with a weary sigh. It had been such a long day. Every day such the implosion and collapse of the building had seemed endless. Most days, he really hadn't even wanted to leave his apartment and interact with other people. He hated trying to pretend that he had it all together when it felt like his insides were irreparably torn to ribbons. Yet on the other hand, interacting with those who honestly cared about him had been a comfort.

Interacting with those whom he was not that close to was usually not. One of the camera operators had said the other day that at least he and Barney hadn't been close; if they had been, it would be far worse. Maybe to some extent he had a point, but Baxter couldn't see it that way. He had always loved his brother. And they had finally started to figure out how to be brothers. Now . . . now he was gone.

He knew Raphael was angry at Barney for not listening to Baxter's warnings. Baxter should be angry too, he supposed. Maybe ordinarily he would have been. But when he knew what it was like to walk such a dark path and end up suffering the consequences, right now he really felt only pity, sympathy, resignation, and sorrow. He had known something terrible would happen to Barney, just as it had to him. He hadn't expected for Barney to instigate the terrible thing, or for Barney to have sacrificed himself, but he had realized that being with Shredder and Krang would only lead to his brother's doom.

Barney had realized it too, after a while. Baxter had tried to believe that there was still hope if Barney would only leave, but he had never been able to convince Barney of that. At first Barney had wanted to stay. Later he had just been afraid to leave. And then he had wanted to turn his mistake into something worthwhile and help in the fight against Shredder from the inside.

He had certainly done that. But the cost had been too high. Baxter wished, as he had every day, that there had been another way to stop the lightning gun.

"Dr. Stockman?"

He turned at April's voice. She was standing in the doorway of her office, looking at him in concern.

"What is it, Miss O'Neil?" A new assignment, perhaps?

"Are you alright?" Guilt flashed through April's eyes. "I know that's a stupid question. But you looked so especially sad right now. . . ."

"I'm not alright and I don't know if or when I will ever be alright," Baxter answered honestly. He was tired of putting on an act. He wasn't good at that.

April looked at him sorrowfully. "I know the pain is too fresh for you to ever really consider that it won't always be this way," she said.

"This . . . isn't the first experience I've had with death," Baxter said. "Or what I thought was death. . . . But the other time, I . . . didn't have a clear mind."

"You mean your . . . computer friend?" April asked.

"Yes." Baxter sighed. "The last time I was thrown into dimensional limbo, I was all alone. I knew the console had blown up and I thought Vincent was caught in it. He was my only friend back then. I see now how much he tried to keep me anchored to sanity and reality in whatever ways he could. Probably just his presence alone kept my humanity alive. Without him, I . . . degraded almost entirely the rest of the way. I grieved so deeply over him that I felt all but hopeless."

He looked away, guilt in his eyes. "Then when I was restored to myself, I remembered my feelings about artifical intelligence and I questioned if he was really as sentient as I remembered him in my tortured mind. I struggled for a long time with those conflicted feelings. I thought I must have surely just seen things differently in that state of mind and that Vincent must in reality just be another machine that didn't really have independent thought, even if I remembered him that way. Then I met him again and I knew that where he was concerned, I had remembered right. He was alive, just as much so as you or I. . . . And I felt horrible for doubting him or our friendship."

". . . Does he know about your feelings?" April asked.

"I couldn't bring myself to tell him," Baxter said. "Anyway, that isn't the point. The point is how I reacted to his death. Then he wasn't dead. I got my friend back." He looked up at April. "But that isn't the case with Barney. He _is_ dead, and I'm in my right mind trying to deal with it, and I don't know how to cope." His voice cracked. "In some ways, it's so much easier dealing with death when you're too far gone to really see it clearly. The pain is far worse when you're sane."

"I'm so sorry," April said softly. "I haven't experienced death since I was a little girl and my grandparents died."

"I wasn't ever close to my grandparents," Baxter said. "They were like my parents, only even more snobbish and upper-class. I guess that's where they got it from. . . ."

"And you and Barney broke the pattern," April said. "If you ever do have kids, you can at least have the assurance of knowing that they won't be treated like you and Barney were. Or your parents when they were young."

"And I'd also know that they'd never know their uncle," Baxter answered.

"I guess . . . you'd have to help them know him through stories about him," April said.

"I would," Baxter said quietly. "But that's all irrelevant. I don't imagine I ever will have children." He looked weary. "Thank you for listening, Miss O'Neil."

"I'm always happy to," April said. "Maybe tomorrow will be better."

Baxter gave her a dry smirk. "I keep telling myself that. Sometimes it is, for a while. But then something else happens and everything falls apart again."

April sadly watched him go. "I wish there was something I could really do for him," she said to herself. Grief was always a long process and while she hoped and really believed that Baxter would be able to heal in time, she couldn't stand to see him suffer. And even when he did heal, he would always ache over his brother's death. What April wished most was that she could give him a miracle and bring Barney back to him.

She blinked in surprise when her Turtle-Comm went off. When she opened it, she found Leonardo looking up at her. "Hi, April. Um, are you alone?"

"Yeah," she said slowly. But she went back into her office and shut the door anyway. "This sounds serious. What is it?"

"It's . . . kind of hard to explain," Leonardo admitted. "Raphael saw something . . . or some _one_ earlier today and we've been trying to locate it . . . him. . . ."

"Barney?!" April blurted, half without thinking.

"That's right," Leonardo said in amazement.

"Like, how did you know, Dudette?" Michelangelo asked, coming up behind Leonardo. "Are you getting promonitions and stuff too now?"

"No, I don't think so," April said. "I feel so bad for Baxter and I was just wishing I could help him by finding Barney alive and well for him."

"Well, we're not sure it really is Barney," Leonardo said. "It might be some new hologram program of Shredder's. If it is Barney . . . it looks like he doesn't remember anything. He didn't show any recognition when he looked at Raphael."

"Then he got freaked out and ran," Michelangelo added.

"Oh no," April whispered.

"We're trying to find him now, but we've been looking for hours without luck," Leonardo said. "We thought that maybe some more people joining the search would increase our chances."

"But like, we don't wanna let Baxter know until we're sure it's really Barney," Michelangelo said. "We don't wanna get his hopes up or anything."

"Of course," April said. "Well, I'm sure game, guys. And I bet I can get Irma and even Vernon to help, if they're free."

"Great," Leonardo smiled. "We'll keep in touch with our Turtle-Comms, but we won't use Baxter's frequency."

"Right." April closed the compact and hurried out of her office, right past Burne in the doorway of his office.

"April, where are you going?!" he growled.

"I'm not sure yet, Chief!" April called over her shoulder. "I'm on the trail of a really big story, if it pans out!"

"Hmph," Burne grunted, folding his arms. "It'd better. We need something good for the eleven o'clock news tonight."

"Trust me, Mr. Thompson, this would be a winner!" April insisted.

 _Oh please let this be real,_ she prayed. _Please let Barney be alive. . . . And if it's not too much to ask, please help him remember too._

xxxx

He spent the remainder of the day wandering again, thinking on all the memories that were returning to him at long last. He still didn't recall everything, but as the day went on, he regained more and more of his past.

He was still trying to grasp that he truly had been the one who had destroyed the lightning gun. It was so much to take in, so hard to believe that he wasn't as wretched as he had believed himself to be. Oh, he had still done abominable things, but he had even convinced himself that he was probably a willing attempted mass murderer. And instead, he had put himself into this miserable situation because he had been trying so hard to _save_ lives, not _end_ them.

"Who am I?" he whispered again.

More memories came back. He was still haunted by having turned that Turtle to gold. He had only done it out of desperation, wanting the goose and believing the state could be reversed. He hadn't intended to leave Baxter in that state, either, had he managed to put Baxter in it. He had planned to save them both, once he had the goose and the antidote. . . . But it was still poetic justice that he had suffered in that state instead. Regardless of whether he believed it wasn't really a death and could be reversed, it had been an abominable, sickening thing to do. And he would never get over it.

For the second time the memory returned of attacking someone who had been trying to kill Baxter. Now he recalled it in more detail. At first he had just been enraged by that act. Then his rage at himself had come out and he had pounded on that wretch as though he had been pounding on himself. And Baxter . . . dear Baxter. . . . Baxter had expressed forgiveness for what he had done that had made him hate himself so much.

"How could you forgive me for a lifetime of pain, of suffering?" he said aloud. "How could you forgive me for hitting you with a _crowbar?!_ "

 _"You didn't hit me hard enough to kill me,"_ he heard Baxter saying in his mind. _"Maybe because deep down, you already knew you didn't want to."_

Baxter had felt bitter and hurt through the years. Of course, any normal person would. And yet in spite of it all, Baxter had continued to love him. Doing anything to hurt him absolutely devastated Baxter.

Baxter must be absolutely devastated now. . . . He had been so heartbroken when he had thought that he had lost him on a snowy mountain. . . . He and the Turtles had tried to find and help him. And when they had, they had been willing to do whatever necessary to save his life-even in spite of the Golden Goose disaster.

He had started to heal after that, both body and soul. He had started to communicate with Baxter and to try harder to help him fight against Shredder and Krang despite still being with them. He had begun to change so much and likely would have continued to if the calamity with the lightning gun hadn't interrupted it.

"I . . . I don't hate him," he realized in stunned awe and joy. "Not anymore. I finally got past that. He's my brother. I want him to be my brother. I want to be _his_ brother."

He looked around in determination and then caught sight of a familiar street sign. He knew where he was! And he knew where Baxter was relative to here! At last, he could go home. And now, even though he still loathed himself, he finally felt worthy to.

xxxx

The Turtles were growing weary and exhausted. It was dark now and neither they nor the Channel 6 crew had had any luck. They slumped and slouched in the Turtle Van, wondering what to do next.

"He's gotta be around, Dudes," Michelangelo said.

"Unless he's a hologram," Donatello said.

"Or unless Shred-Head already got to him," Raphael muttered. "In that case he's probably . . ."

"Don't say it," Leonardo interrupted. "It's too soon to believe that there _was_ a chance to save him and now he really is gone."

"That's too awful," Michelangelo said.

Raphael slammed his hand on the dashboard. "So what do you suggest we do?!" he snapped.

"This is a big city," Leonardo said. "If Barney's alive, he's been wandering for days without us running into him. He could have easily dropped out of sight again. We're going to keep looking."

Donatello reached to start the engine. At the same moment, Michelangelo's Turtle-Comm went off. He quickly grabbed it. "What's the haps, April?" he demanded.

"I think we've hit on something!" April exclaimed. "Irma decided to visit this old Jewish lady who's a friend of her family's. She told Irma that Barney was at her apartment late this afternoon!"

"What?!" yelped the Turtles around Michelangelo.

His eyes widened with excitement and joy. "Righteous! How sure is she that it was Barney?!"

"No doubt at all," April said. "He matched the description, but more than that, he responded when she showed him the news story about the collapse of the Dansing Building and his sacrifice!" Her voice lowered. "She said he was stricken with grief and anguish over having tried to kill his brother . . . and having turned a Turtle to gold. He believed he was a horrible person."

"Yeah, that's Barney, alright," Michelangelo said. "But so what was going on?! It sounds like he remembers stuff, so why didn't he know Raphael?!"

"She said he started getting more of his memory back while he was there," April said. She sighed sadly. "But he also didn't know whether he should go back. He felt Baxter was better off thinking he was dead. She tried to tell him otherwise, but she's not sure it worked."

"Where is she and what direction did Barney take when he left?" Leonardo demanded.

April gave the address. "She said Barney just kept walking down the street. She hoped he would turn and go towards Midtown, but she's not sure if he did. We're going down the street now in case he kept going straight."

"Then we'll go there and turn, in case he decided to go home," Leonardo declared.

"Thanks a million, April!" Michelangelo cried.

"No problem!" April returned. "This is so incredible, I can hardly believe it's really happening!"

"I hear it and I still can't believe it's really happening," Raphael returned. "And I probably won't until I see Barney for myself."

"Doubting Thomas," April playfully retorted.

Michelangelo hung up and pumped his fists to the ceiling. "This is absolutely bodacious! Barney is alive! See, my keeping the faith actually paid off!"

"Yeah, yeah, it looks that way," Raphael said. "But why don't we wait to get excited until we actually see him?"

"You can wait, Dude, but I can't!" Michelangelo shot back. "I'm excited right now!"

"Let's just hope we can find him soon," Donatello said. "And convince him to come back if he hasn't already decided to."

"And that might be a challenge," Raphael said. "You know how stubborn he is."

"Like someone else we all know," Leonardo smiled.

Raphael scowled.

xxxx

He wasn't sure what drove him on, what enabled him to know exactly where to go when he didn't fully remember (at least consciously), but here he was, going up the fire escape of an apartment building and peering through a darkened window on the third floor. It was Baxter's apartment, but he wasn't home. And somehow, he doubted Vincent was either. Baxter had probably taken Vincent with him to work. He wouldn't want to leave Vincent alone all day. They would want each other's company.

He turned away. He had grown worried and hesitant again on the walk over here. Vincent had been his listening board, his conscience, for the last several months. He wanted to see him again, to talk to him, to ask him what to do. But maybe it was a stall. He knew what Vincent would tell him to do. And really, he knew that was the right thing to do. He couldn't let Baxter think he was dead. That wasn't the best thing for Baxter at all. But . . . where was Baxter?

He wandered down the fire escape and continued to wander through town. Baxter worked in Midtown, at Channel 6. But he didn't really want to go there. Then everyone else in the building might see him first and it would go on the news and . . . all he really wanted was to privately see his brother and Vincent before anyone else knew.

More memories were coming back to him as he walked. He remembered this street . . . that stress clinic. . . . Floating down a flooded street on top of a fire engine with Bebop and Rocksteady, clutching Vincent for dear life. . . .

There was where Krang had kidnapped Santa Claus . . . or whoever that had been. And this was the path of the rebuilt Knucklehead that he had used to terrorize the Turtles.

Not a good memory.

Once, Baxter had had an accident with some ghost-busting equipment and had ended up forcefully astral-projecting. He had believed Baxter was dead and had been unable to deal with it. Upon finding Baxter alive and well after thinking he had gone on to Heaven, he had snapped at Baxter for putting him through that. Deep down, what he had really been trying to say was _"I love you. I can't deal with you not being here."_ But it had come out all wrong.

What would Baxter say upon finding him alive? It was unlikely that he would receive the same treatment he had given Baxter. But he certainly wouldn't blame Baxter for lashing out at him. He probably deserved every bit of it and more.

Now he was remembering years of study, years of gathering knowledge, years of putting it to use. . . . And more than that, all the details of what he had learned and discovered. He didn't have to worry that he would have to get a job washing cars or flipping hamburgers. (Oh, the indignity!) He hadn't lost his scientific mind! He had it back again! He could still do the only thing he had ever wanted to do and invent!

He turned around, studying the street, the buildings, the hibernating trees in the sidewalk. . . . He backed up, right into a parking meter.

One last flash of memory.

 _He was in the collapsing building, falling, struggling up, running, and falling again. He was frightened, panicked. Death was all around him, exploding, shaking, crashing, and even though he had tried to prepare himself for this, for what he knew was inevitable, he was terrified._

 _"Oh please," he choked out as he fell to his knees again. "Please . . . I don't want to die. I deserve it, but I don't . . . I don't want to die!"_

 _He berated himself as he grabbed the stairwell banister and pulled himself up again. He was praying for himself? After all that he had done, that was sacrilege. He had vowed never to pray for himself, nor to let anyone else do it. He was supposed to have steeled himself for death. But when it came right down to it, he hadn't steeled himself at all._

 _He ran down the next flight of stairs. The violent rocking of the building and the debris already on the floor sent him crashing down again. This time, his right leg hit the stairs at a strange angle and he shouted in pain. When he sprawled at the bottom, he couldn't get that leg to cooperate and get under him so he could stand. It wasn't broken, he didn't think, but at the moment it felt absolutely on fire._

 _Somehow he managed to pull himself up by shifting all the pressure to his left leg. He limped forward and slammed into the wall, forced to shield himself as the debris rained down in front of him. At last it stopped and he stumbled forward, coughing and gasping. Now he could barely see ahead of him and his leg was buckling. He couldn't figure out where to go. He wasn't going to make it. . . ._

 _That was when two hands pressed on his back and physically pushed him forward. "You're not dying tonight," a voice whispered. "You've got a lot of living left to do."_

 _He looked behind him, but no one was there._

 _Shaken, he thrust his hands out in front of him. Something was there; it felt like a door. He pushed, desperate. At first it was stuck. Then it flew open and he fell out, crashing to the cement in a daze._

He sank down on a bench, shaken, staring up at the sky. "What . . . what was that?" he whispered. "My imagination? An hallucination? An . . . angel?"

He shook his head. That was too impossible.

But he had heard a voice and felt hands pushing him towards the door.

There were logical explanations for all of that.

"God . . . wouldn't send an angel for someone like me," he said under his breath.

But . . . was there any chance He had?

He leaned back. This was too much to take in right now. He would have to think on it more later, when he wasn't reeling so much from the freshly returned memory.

It was strange. . . . He remembered so many things, almost all of his life now, but he couldn't recall his name. That was the one puzzle piece still lost to him.

He should have paid more attention to that newspaper article, he supposed. His name had probably been in there.

He didn't know how long he had sat there when the sound of a vehicle pulling over to the curb startled him back to awareness. "Barney?! _Barney?!_ "

Barney. . . .

His eyes widened. Yes . . . that was it. That was his name!

Baxter was flying out of the car, Vincent in his arms, as he stared in disbelief at the man on the bench. Vincent looked equally shocked and joyous. "Barney, old buddy! It's you! It's really you!"

Then Baxter was there, setting Vincent down gently on the bench as he pulled his brother into a hug without a second thought. "Barney! Barney, you're alive! You're not a ghost, or a hologram, or anything else intangible! Michelangelo was right-you're alive! Thank God. Oh, thank God!"

And for the first time he could remember in his life, Barney returned the embrace. "I'm so sorry," he rasped. "Please forgive me. I didn't remember who I was. I couldn't come home." His grip tightened. "But I remember now. I was coming back . . . trying to find you. . . ."

"And you have, Barney! You have!" Baxter pulled back, looking at him, wanting to remind himself again that this was reality and not a fantasy. "You've come back!" His voice lowered. "Now you're truly home."

And Barney smiled. He really was.

xxxx

The Turtle-Comm went off after the Turtles had been traveling down the street for some distance. "What is it, Baxter?" Leonardo asked when he answered.

Baxter looked absolutely joyous. "Leonardo, everyone, I don't know how to say this except just to say it. Barney is alive! He's come home. He's with me right now."

Leonardo's eyes widened. "You're sure, Baxter? It's really Barney?"

"And not a cruel trick of Shredder's?" Raphael added.

"It's really Barney," Baxter insisted. He held the Turtle-Comm so that Barney was visible on the viewscreen. The other man looked highly awkward and unsure what to think.

"Alright!" Michelangelo exclaimed. "He really did go back!"

Baxter raised an eyebrow. "You sound as though you already knew he was alive."

"We heard that he seemed to be," Leonardo admitted. "We were trying to find him, but we hadn't had any luck. We wanted to make sure it was him before we told you anything."

"April, Irma, and Vernon have been trying to find him too," Donatello added.

Baxter smiled, moved. "Thank you . . . all of you."

Barney shifted. "Raphael, I . . . didn't remember you earlier today. And you sounded angry at me. That's why I ran."

"Well, I've got plenty to be angry about!" Raphael snapped. "We've all thought you were dead! Poor Baxter and Vincent. . . ."

"I deserve that," Barney said. He sounded uncharacteristically subdued.

"No, you don't, Barney," Baxter retorted. "You couldn't help that you didn't remember."

"And you couldn't help that you astral-projected and left me thinking you were dead," Barney countered. "But I tore into you for that."

"It deeply hurt," Baxter admitted. "But you couldn't seem to figure out how else to say you cared. I've tried to focus on that."

"We're tracking your location now, Baxter," Leonardo said.

Donatello nodded. "We'll be there in just a minute. We want to see Barney in person."

"He's for real, Dudes," Michelangelo said in frustration. "Why can't you just believe it?!"

"We really do believe it, Michelangelo," Leonardo said. "But we still want to see him, if for no other reason than to welcome him back face-to-face."

"And what about that piece of hair, huh?!" Raphael snapped, glaring at Barney. "We thought that was the only part of you left intact!"

"Piece of . . . hair?" Barney looked bewildered, then guilty. "I got caught in a door. I tore free and just ran."

The Turtle Van pulled up to the curb and everyone got out. Donatello was holding a strange gadget, which he held up to Barney as it flashed and beeped.

"What is that?!" Barney demanded, finally showing a little of his old fire.

"I'm just checking to make absolutely sure you're not a hologram," Donatello said. "Yep, it says you're human, alright."

"I could have told you that," Vincent retorted. "I can check matter too, you know."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Raphael sighed.

Michelangelo pushed past Donatello. "So Barney, you're really back! That's absolutely bodacious!" He grinned broadly. "We like, really missed you!"

Barney stared at the Turtle he had turned to gold in the past. Michelangelo had forgiven him, but it still sounded so impossible to believe. How could he be forgiven for what he had done? And how could he have been missed by the Turtles?

"You . . . missed me?" he said incredulously.

"Well, sure," Michelangelo said, as though it was the most simple and obvious thing in the world.

"We're all glad you're back, Barney," Leonardo smiled.

"Even Raphael," Donatello added. "Just don't expect him to admit it."

"Sure, I'll admit it," Raphael shot back. "I'm glad you're back for Baxter's sake. Even for ol' Vincent."

"You're glad for your own sake too," Donatello replied. "And for Barney's."

"Don't push it," Raphael growled. "And how the heck do you remember now if you didn't earlier?" He looked suspiciously at Barney.

"I don't know," Barney said honestly. "I've been getting back bits and pieces for days, but then a larger chunk just . . . gushed back today. The remaining memories trickled back over the last several hours."

"And the coat. Where'd you get that?" Raphael demanded.

Barney was starting to feel defensive from Raphael's interrogation. "I doubt that's any of your business." He folded his arms.

"Everything you've been doing is our business, since Baxter's our friend," Raphael insisted.

"It's alright, Raphael," Baxter interjected. "Barney's had a hard time too. And you and he aren't exactly bosom friends. It's understandable he wouldn't be comfortable talking about his experiences with you."

". . . Yeah, I guess you're right," Raphael relented. "I wouldn't want to confide in him either."

"What I will tell you, since I imagine this is really all you want to know, is that I came back as soon as I felt I could," Barney said. "I did not deliberately leave my brother or my friend to suffer."

"Aww, we know that, Dude," Michelangelo smiled.

"I doubt Raphael does," said Barney. "And I can't blame him." He looked firmly at Raphael. "For days, the memories that returned to me were unpleasant ones. I realized almost immediately that I was a monster. The things I've done are inexcusable. Now I remember the rest and I know I'm not that person anymore. But you still have no reason to trust or like me. You never will."

"Darn-tootin'," Raphael snapped.

"Raphael," Donatello quietly admonished.

Raphael gave a heavy sigh and the anger flickered out of his eyes. "But I said the same thing about Baxter, once upon a time. I guess . . . it was easier to forgive him, since he was nuts when he did horrible things to us. I'll admit that right now it doesn't seem possible with you, but who knows. Maybe the future will surprise us both. In any case, I . . . I really am glad you're not dead." He slowly held out a hand.

Barney stared at him in stunned disbelief. Then, slowly as well, he took it.

"Alright!" Michelangelo grinned. "You guys'll be buds someday. Just wait and see!"

Baxter chuckled. "That would take a miracle. But . . ." He lifted the laptop from the bench. "There have already been so many. It's not impossible."

"Righteous notion," Michelangelo said.

Leonardo smiled. "We know you three must have a lot to catch up on. We'll leave you alone for now. And we'll let April, Irma, and Vernon know that Barney's come home." He stepped back. "Let's go, guys."

The other Turtles complied, calling their goodbyes as they left.

Baxter looked to Barney. "What are you planning to do, Brother?"

"I . . ." Barney shifted. "I don't know. . . ." He supposed he should go back to the house he owned, the one he had bought years ago on the money he had made from his inventions and commissions. It was more like a mansion, really, but he had never been happy there. And right now, he realized in stunned shock, he actually wasn't sure he wanted to leave Baxter so soon. He definitely didn't want to leave Vincent.

"Come back to my apartment," Baxter implored. "Even if just for tonight. I'll take the couch; you can have the bed."

Barney stared at him. Whereas once he would have likely flat-out rejected the idea and opted to go back to his mansion regardless, now it didn't sound like a terrible idea at all. "Alright," he found himself saying. "Just for tonight. Thank you, Brother."

Baxter smiled and led him to the car. As he climbed into the passenger seat, Baxter set the laptop on his lap and went around to the driver's side.

"Barney, I'm so glad you're back," Vincent said.

Barney smiled a bit as well. "I am as well."

"There's no chance we'll be staying with Baxter long-term, is there?" Vincent longingly asked.

"'We'?" Barney blinked. He watched Baxter get in and turn on the engine. "There's no way it would work for he and I to live in a small apartment indefinitely. But I thought you'd be staying with him. . . ."

"If we're not all together, Barney, I'm going with you," Vincent insisted.

Baxter's expression was bittersweet. He had known that. And that was likely for the best. Barney still needed Vincent more, and Vincent knew that.

Barney smiled a bit more and leaned back, pondering. If he didn't have to go back to that mansion alone, it didn't seem as daunting a prospect.

"What are you thinking, Barney?" Vincent asked. "You want me to come with you, don't you?"

"Yes," Barney said. "I'm just thinking of all the people who helped me . . . of how happy they've made their homes. I'm thinking that maybe together, we can make my house happy as well."

Baxter's smile became cheerier. "I know you can," he said. "And all these people who helped you . . . I'm indebted to them forever."

"We both are," Barney said. He gazed out at the New York night. "We both are. . . ."

The strangest thought came to him and he looked down at Vincent in disbelief. ". . . You said recently that you've come to care about both Baxter and me the same," he said. "But you said you consider Baxter the 'greatest guy in the universe.' Does that really mean . . ."

"You both are," Vincent said.

Barney slumped back. "Impossible. . . ."

Baxter laughed. "Barney, someday you'll have to accept how much we love you. Even if it will always boggle your mind."

"It always will," Barney said. "I don't deserve such love." Softer he added, "But I'm grateful."

Vincent smiled in pure contentment. Barney was home and he and Baxter were together, even if only for a few hours. This was the happiest he had been in 485 years.

xxxx

Barney looked around Baxter's apartment when they arrived home and Baxter turned on the lights. It was still small, but homey and peaceful, just like the other places he had been over the last couple of weeks.

"Do you want anything, Barney?" Baxter asked. "I could fix something for dinner."

That's right . . . he hadn't eaten dinner tonight. "That would be nice," he said. "And . . . maybe I'll shower while you do that."

"Go ahead," Baxter said. "And you could change into something of mine for tonight, if you want. . . ."

Barney nodded. "Thank you." He set the laptop on the long table and headed down the hall.

Baxter watched him go. "He's really home," he said softly to Vincent. "It's still hard for me to fully believe it."

"It's logical to believe it, when it's the truth," Vincent said. "But I know; it's incredible."

Dinner was both interesting and awkward. The brothers hadn't shared a table in over twenty years. Barney didn't feel like offering a great many details about his experience and Baxter didn't know if he should bring up things like what to do about telling their parents and risk stressing Barney, so when Vincent wasn't trying to instigate conversation, they largely ate in silence. But the tension from their childhood was gone. There was no hatred towards Baxter in Barney's heart and Baxter wasn't worried about what Barney might think or do. It was a quiet, peaceful meal.

Barney waited until they had finished and were cleaning up the dishes before he brought up an awkward topic himself. "I heard that there was a funeral."

Baxter froze. "Yes, there was."

Barney set the silverware on top of the plates at the side of the sink. "I'm sorry."

"So am I," Baxter said with a sad smile. "I'm afraid our mother used it as an opportunity to generate good publicity for the family name and business."

"I'm not surprised." Barney turned away. "I wonder what she'll think of my reappearance. It rather effectively trounces any money she spent at the cemetery."

"I can imagine Father complaining to her about that," Baxter confessed. "But I think as long as she has that good publicity, she won't care."

"I think you're right." Barney walked back over to the table where the laptop had been placed. "But I can't say I'm looking forward to letting either of them know I'm alive."

"Won't we need to let everyone know?" Vincent said in concern.

"We should." Baxter rinsed the dishes and loaded them in the dishwasher, then leaned against it as he turned to face Barney. "Another press conference might be the easiest way to do it. . . ."

"Does 'everyone' really need to know?" Barney retorted, folding his arms.

"Well, I don't know how we're going to go about getting you established in a new life if 'everyone' still thinks you're dead," Baxter said with a smile. Sobering, he continued, "And there's really been a huge outpouring of love for you, Barney. I know that's probably incomprehensible to you, but the citizens are grateful to you for your sacrifice."

Barney grunted. "Alright. Go ahead with it. But I don't even know what kind of life I can get set up in," he muttered.

Baxter came closer. "You don't have to worry about prison," he said. "There was never anything you could be charged with, and after what you did, I don't think any law-enforcement agency would risk upsetting the people by having you arrested."

"So I get off scot-free?" Barney turned to face him. "Do you think that's right?"

Baxter looked his twin firmly in the eyes. "In this case, yes," he insisted. "You _have_ suffered for the wrong you've done. And it's as I told you before: you can accomplish more good by being free. Why use the taxpayers' money on you when they could use it instead on someone who doesn't want to repent?"

"Repent," Barney scoffed. He sank down at the table. "Do you think I can, Brother? It was easy enough for you; you never wanted to be a criminal."

"It isn't always easy," Baxter said softly. "There's all the people I hurt. I'm still trying to figure out how to make it up to some of them. And some of them were apparently too damaged for me to even be able to."

"If you're thinking of the wretch who was stalking you, don't," Barney said harshly. "His problems didn't start with you. Naturally they didn't end with you."

"I realize that," Baxter said. "He hates mutants. But my turning him into one may have tipped him over the edge."

Barney sneered. "Anything you did to him served him right. He hated mutants so bad? Then fine, he should have experienced what it was like to be one. Poetic justice at its finest."

". . . You know, Barney, that sounds a lot like something Raphael might say," Baxter mused.

"I don't doubt it," Barney retorted. "We agree on many things, including his feelings concerning me."

"You will probably always despise yourself, won't you," Vincent remarked.

"Probably." Barney leaned on the table with an elbow. "For most of my life, I didn't care what I had to do to try to succeed. Or I told myself that, at least. Deep down, I always cared. But that didn't stop me from making cruel and selfish choices." He shook his head. "I really don't know if I can live honestly."

Baxter sat down next to him. "It won't be easy," he admitted. "But yes, I believe you can do it. You're stronger than you think you are. And you've already been trying to do the right thing for weeks. Unlike before, now you're ready to listen and you really want to try. I'll be here for you to help you fully make the transition . . . if you want me."

Barney looked at him for a long moment. Then he looked down at the table. "I'd like that," he said.

"I'll be here for you too, Buddy," Vincent said. "Although I'm also learning."

Baxter smiled. "You've already learned that encouraging revenge is not a good idea."

"Because I didn't want Barney to hurt you," Vincent said. "And then I know how much you've wanted Barney to turn his life around, and I have too. And with the laws on this planet, I knew he wouldn't be able to do that so easily if he tried to take revenge on someone. Even that horrible man who was stalking you."

"What's happening with him anyway?" Barney wondered.

"He's being charged for assaulting that security guard," Baxter said. "I still haven't pressed charges. I realized that you'd have to testify in detail and his lawyer could make things very bad for you. He might even try to make it look like you're insane." He shook his head. "I won't do anything that could cause you to suffer as I did."

"Then you're still looking out for me, even when you should be worrying more about yourself," Barney said. He looked away. "But I'm grateful."

"I know," Baxter said quietly.

Barney got up from the table. "I'm going to bed," he announced. "You can make the arrangements for the press conference. We might as well get it over with as soon as possible."

Baxter regarded him in amusement. "You make it sound like it's going to be torture."

Barney shrugged. "If it was to celebrate some scientific achievement of mine, I'd be all for it. But _this . . ._ this is just awkward." He started out of the room, then paused. "Goodnight, both of you."

"Goodnight," Baxter and Vincent echoed.

Baxter stood as well. "And Barney? Welcome back."

Barney turned and looked at him with an unreadable expression. Then, slowly, he smiled.

Baxter watched as he vanished into the bedroom. "He's still aloof," he mused. "Maybe he always will be around me. But that's alright. We're actually getting along now." He looked back to Vincent. "And he has you to confide in. I'm so glad he has someone."

"I'm glad to be that someone." Vincent paused. "Baxter, old pal . . . I'm sorry I'll be leaving you again."

"Don't be." Baxter came back into the kitchen and sat at the table in front of him. "I wish you were staying. And I know you'd like to, but only if Barney stays too. You belong with Barney now." He laid a hand on the edge of the laptop. "You were always faithful and loyal to me when I needed you, and I will never forget that. You will always be my friend. I'm happy that now you're Barney's friend as well."

"Maybe someday you could move into Barney's house with us," Vincent suggested. "I'm sure it's big enough."

"But maybe not big enough for the both of us to co-exist under the same roof indefinitely," Baxter said. "It's far too early to think about such a possibility. Barney and I still have a long way to go before we can really function like a close-knit family. If we ever can. If we could even be one-third as close as the Turtles, we'd be doing incredibly well."

"I wouldn't count it out. Not now that you've come this far."

Baxter smiled. "We'll see."

"By the way, Baxter . . . it's alright that you weren't sure what to think of me when you first got your mind back," Vincent said. "I knew that if you ever did, you'd be different."

Baxter froze. ". . . You heard my conversation with Miss O'Neil?"

"Yes. I'm just glad you were willing to give me a chance again, especially when you've always sneered at artificial intelligence."

"As I said, there are exceptions," Baxter said. "I don't believe you are just artificially intelligent. You always tried to be a good friend, even when you didn't understand that encouraging revenge is not a good idea."

"I'm happy you feel that way." Vincent hesitated. "But I'm sorry I betrayed you twice when I was threatened. I tried to make up for it. . . ."

"You more than made up for it," Baxter said firmly. "And I'm relieved that my twisted plans were stopped."

"That's good then," Vincent said.

Baxter carried the laptop into the living room and back to the table before settling on the couch. "Goodnight, Vincent."

"Goodnight, old pal," Vincent returned.

xxxx

In the bedroom, Barney listened as the voices stopped. He was lying in the bed, still awake, still thinking on everything that had happened.

How was he so cared about? How had he even gone from being such an abominable villain to someone who could be cared about? How had Baxter cared about him regardless? Now that his memories had been restored, it was even more incredible to him instead of less. He remembered everything he had done. And he remembered his attitudes.

He had always maintained that he hadn't cared what he had to do to be successful. All through his life he had believed that . . . or tried to, despite his guilt whenever he did something wrong. He had trounced his conscience so many times, he was surprised it still worked at all.

He had never been there for Baxter. He had always felt his brother was in his way. He had even tried to cheat his way to the top out of desperation when he realized Baxter was more popular. And Baxter had taken it all those years, just trying to get on with his life instead of making trouble in turn.

Barney had always been bewildered and angry that Baxter not only hadn't acted out with him, but that he hadn't tried to talk to Barney when Barney did something that hurt him. Deep down, Barney wondered if he had _wanted_ Baxter to talk to him. It was his own fault Baxter hadn't; Baxter had felt too afraid to even try ever since Barney had first snapped and threatened him when they had been eight. The first time they had ever really released their innermost feelings had been when Barney had chased Baxter through the Technodrome in a murderous rage.

Hitting Baxter with that crowbar had certainly been a turning point in both their lives. His rage had evaporated and he had been filled with horror over what he had done. For the first time, he had really listened to his conscience. He didn't want to be the kind of person who would do something so horrible. Yet he had still tried to walk a tightrope between good and evil, both because he had felt he had no choice but to stay with Shredder and Krang and because at that point, part of him still wanted to.

He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. That dual attitude had persisted until the infamous Golden Goose incident. He had been so desperate to successfully complete his assignment and not run the risk of being thrown into the disintegration chamber that he had once again pushed himself into most dangerously going against his conscience. He had tried not to think of using the goose on a person being the same as killing them. It couldn't be, could it, not when there was a way to reverse it?

But what if there hadn't been? To be stranded like that, alive but unable to function or communicate, was a fate worse than death. He hadn't really known or understood until he had suffered himself. He hadn't even thought that much about what the person would feel, except that he supposed he had assumed that they would be put in suspended animation and just sleep-no pain, no panic, no desperation to get free. And it hadn't been like that at all. It was probably actually surprising that he hadn't developed claustrophobia as a result. Maybe he would have, had he remained in that state for any length of time. Instead, he had just developed an even more intense hatred of himself.

He had also tried to make himself believe that Shredder and Krang were not as deadly as Baxter insisted. When they came up with plans such as clumsiness rays and Snowcatchers, it hadn't been terribly difficult. But really, he had always known he was fooling himself. Anyone who would try to murder Baxter by disintegration was extremely deadly, no matter how outlandish their conquer the world plots were.

Anyone who would try to murder Baxter at all was extremely deadly. Hence why he had first started to loathe himself so deeply.

He had come away from the Golden Goose plot hating himself and admitting it to Vincent. Then he had gone and confessed even more of his dark thoughts to Santa Claus . . . or whoever it was that Krang had kidnapped on Christmas Eve. The Golden Goose case had put him at a crossroads, and even though he had felt all the more that he was a villain and thus belonged with villains, he had realized that he absolutely could not do anything ever again like what he had done on that case.

He had never again had the same relish for any of Shredder and Krang's schemes or his involvement in them. He had either outright hated and disagreed with them when it came to things such as kidnapping an alien child or posing as a medical doctor, or he had just been annoyed and bored with the whole thing, as he had regarding the Snowcatcher and other subsequent plots.

Then, especially after his feelings towards Baxter had thawed, he had started entertaining the thought of being useful to the "good guys" and helping defeat Shredder and Krang from the inside. . . . He had tried to do that, even as he had still struggled with not being sure he wanted to betray at least Krang, who had continually shown an interest in him. But Vincent had been right that he couldn't be loyal to both Krang and Baxter, and in the end . . . he had chosen his brother.

He had grown more and more suspicious of his employers' plans and intentions, particularly after they had tried to keep him in the dark regarding the construction of the lightning gun. When he had learned what they were plotting, he had known he had to stop it no matter what. He had resigned himself to death.

But he hadn't died. And while he had wandered, shaken and hurt, people had helped him all along the way. His bitter and cynical beliefs on humanity's selfishness had been proven not as true as he had always felt.

Now, what would he do with that knowledge? Here he was, in his brother's apartment . . . in his brother's _bed_. Alive and on the mend . . . and home.

A villain, a hero . . . an angry man, using his rage to disguise the deep hurt that had started as a child. He had blamed Baxter the most, but really, if anyone in the family was to blame, it had been their parents. He had blamed them too, yet for years Baxter had taken the brunt of his cruelty. But he didn't want to turn around and start hurting their parents as he had hurt Baxter. He was tired of hate, of anger, of living on the edge. . . .

But . . . trying to live honestly? Could he?

Baxter believed he could. So did Vincent. He knew he didn't deserve their belief or their love, but he didn't want to disappoint them. He would give it his best shot.

And if he failed, well . . .

He sighed. He'd think about that in the morning.

At last he slipped off to sleep.

xxxx

Barney wasn't any less uneasy and awkward about the press conference on the following day than he had been during the night. Baxter certainly couldn't blame him. He felt rather nervous himself, especially since he would be the main one speaking again. Still, he was sure that the overall response would be positive.

April, Irma, and Vernon were thrilled for him, of course. This press conference was being held in front of Channel 6, as Baxter had felt it would make Barney too awkward to have it at the site of the Dansing Building. Baxter's coworker friends had all turned out for support and to simply relish the occasion. The Turtles and Splinter were also there.

Baxter had decided that no matter what his feelings were on what their mother had done, it would be too cruel to only let her and their father know that Barney was alive due to a press conference. Before they had left, he had called their home and left a message with the maid. So far he hadn't heard back. But he had advised that they watch the new press conference to see that he hadn't taken leave of his senses for telling them that Barney had come home. He hoped that they would, and that they would be moved that Barney lived. Barney doubted it, but he hadn't protested Baxter's actions.

"I don't quite know how to say this," Baxter began as he stood at the podium. "I said that to my friends the Ninja Turtles last night, and I'm still not sure how to say it. It sounds too incredible, too fantastic, to really be true. And yet, it actually is.

"Last night . . ." He shifted, gripped the podium, and looked behind him at the front doors of the building. "Last night I discovered that a miracle had happened. My brother Barney, who risked everything to save this city's people from Shredder and Krang's lightning gun, didn't die in the building's collapse. He was hurt; the experience left him traumatized and wandering Manhattan with almost complete memory loss. But he was alive. He _is_ alive! Last night, he finally remembered and came home."

Again Baxter looked to the doors. Recognizing his cue, Barney came through the entrance and over to the podium. He still looked incredibly awkward, moreso than even before. Baxter tried to give him an encouraging smile.

"This is my brother," Baxter announced. "So many of you have come together over the last days to show your support and pay your respects by honoring Barney as a hero. As he tries to integrate into a new life here in the city he fought to save, I ask that you please continue to support his efforts and show him how grateful you are. It's never easy to change one's life around, especially after following a certain path for a long time. But Barney is willing to do it."

He looked to Barney. It would be hard, but Barney did need to say a few words himself.

Barney knew that all too well. Slowly, he came forward and took Baxter's place in the center of the podium. "Baxter is right," he said. "I know I was rightfully a villain in this city's eyes until I brought down the Dansing Building to destroy the lightning gun. Then he managed to convince everyone that I'm some kind of a hero.

"I'm just an ordinary man. I did what I felt had to be done. But now, if you'll have me, I will try my best to live honestly, as Baxter is doing." He paused. "And I . . . want to thank every person who had a hand in keeping me alive over the past few days. I couldn't have made it back home without them."

For a brief moment there was silence. Then, one by one, everyone began to join in a rousing round of applause. Baxter smiled.

Michelangelo pumped the sky with a fist. "Now this is when clapping is totally righteous!" he exclaimed.

"Let's just see how well Barney can keep to what he's saying," Raphael muttered, folding his arms.

"I believe in him, Dude," Michelangelo insisted.

"I do too," Leonardo added.

"I certainly feel he deserves the benefit of a doubt," said Splinter.

Raphael and Donatello exchanged a look. "Well?" Donatello asked.

"Okay, okay," Raphael spat in frustration. "I'll give him a chance."

"I'm sure you won't regret it, Raphael," April smiled. She was holding the laptop, which Baxter had entrusted to her care while they spoke. He had felt that Vincent would be more comfortable with April than one of the Turtles and vice versa.

"You won't," Vincent insisted.

Raphael rolled his eyes. "Well, I'm not sure, but I guess we'll find out." A smile tugged at his lips. He couldn't really feel grouchy, not when he saw how joyous Baxter was.

As the brothers came away from the podium, a mother approached holding her two children by the hands. "My children were in one of the buildings near the Dansing Building," she said. "I don't know how many lives you saved, Dr. Stockman, but I know for a surety that you saved my babies when you destroyed the lightning gun in the way that didn't bring down any other buildings. I can never thank you enough for risking your life as you did." She reached for Barney's hand, and to his stunned shock, she took it. "God bless you!"

"Thank you," the children echoed. Barney doubted they were old enough to fully understand what had happened or what he had done, but the youngest of the two hugged him around the waist. Then the older one followed suit.

Barney looked from the mother to them, still stunned and overwhelmed. He couldn't even think what to say.

"I think," Baxter spoke with thoughtfulness, "He already has." He smiled at Barney. "And yes, He will continue to."

Barney looked back. For once, he didn't voice an objection.


End file.
